


Drowning Shadows

by purpledaisy



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Business Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of past drug abuse (not by a main character), New York, Recreational Drug Use, Switching, mentions of past minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 99,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpledaisy/pseuds/purpledaisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Harry Styles, executive recruiter, finally meets his match in Zayn Malik. Or, Harry builds walls and Zayn breaks everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This idea first came to me in November of last year but I wasn't able to make it happen until this summer. It's about time it leaves my head and gets out into the world. Thank you, in advance, for reading. Enjoy!
> 
> Title from "Drowning Shadows" by Sam Smith

The glass sweats against Harry’s palm while he watches her.

She reads the paperwork with her bottom lip caught under her teeth, her fingers twirling the ends of her dark hair. Harry runs the tip of his finger back and forth, slowly, over the cool vapors on the sides of his glass. One drop of condensation collects enough to run up and over his nail and down the back of his finger. He’d catch the drip with his tongue if this meeting were supposed to be something else altogether.

“I don’t know.” She looks up at him, full pink lips and blue almond eyes. “I feel like if I take this, I’m giving up on the grassroots I started with, you know?” She pauses when he licks his tongue out over the corner of his lips. He’s heard this all before. Twice, at that. “Do you have something to say?”

“Annabelle.” He almost rolls his eyes at his tone, the sticky sweetness in his voice. Almost. “I see exactly what you’re saying. But sometimes we have to give in to what it is we want most. Even if it seems,” he pauses with his lips parted, and then, “Dangerous.”

She swallows, hard, and he goes back to dragging his fingertip around the outside of his half-gone whiskey sour. Annabelle sets the pen down and taps her fingers against the thick document in front of her. Maybe he shouldn’t have pulled a word like dangerous so soon. Some people think danger can be sexy—others read it up and down as the wrong side of disaster. He doesn’t let the misstep show on his face. 

“Sorry.” He looks up from under his eyelashes, voice quieter. “Sometimes I get so invested in people’s futures, I get carried away.”

If he could will himself to blush on point, he would. This is why Harry Styles is one of the very best at what he does. He reads body language as simple as the curl of a finger and he has a perfect line on the tip of his tongue at any given moment; He can deflect when he feels cracks in his strategy and he rarely ever gets it wrong.

Now, he twitches his hand like maybe he wants to reach out for her. “I get to know you over this process and I only want what’s best for you. What will make you happiest.”

She laughs and leans back in her chair—the spell he’s been going for is broken again. He straightens up too. He likes to be the one in control, takes meticulous steps to plan and research in order to always be a step ahead. He flexes his jaw and taps his finger against the tablecloth. He watches her eyes trace the movement of his fingers straight up to his wrist, to the watch that won’t hit the market until next week. It’s not even technically his, he borrowed it from his stylist this morning. Still, it’s his bingo.

“I think I know what can make you happy, Annabelle.”

“And what might that be?” She leans forward again, glances down at the contract before meeting his eyes.

“Money.”

She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow at his words but he doesn’t flinch.

“We can talk intentions and grassroots for the next two hours and I can buy you a few more fancy drinks and you can pretend to take this contract back to your hotel and mull it over. Or, we can cut to the chase. Am I hot or cold here?”

“Hot.” She says it simply without the loaded innuendo of some of his clients.

“Great. I think the things you want out of this include penthouse parties and an office overlooking the city. You want to not think about what you’re spending as you do. You want people to claw at your heels to be you.” He runs a hand back through his hair and lets it fall back to his shoulders, “I think you want this job because you love what you do but, more than that, you love the money that comes with it. Am I close?”

She drags her finger over the dotted line at the top of the stack of papers, the one where she’s written the salary she wants. It’s lower than the number Harry was told to give but it’s not his fault that people lowball for a job they really want.

“Might be.” She takes a sip of the drink he bought her on the agency tab.

He knows he’s got her. Most of the time he’s not this involved in the finances and contracts, he’s just the pretty face and an ally to draw them in. With smaller companies that are still working on outfitting their offices, he’s the recruiter and the negotiator.

“I can’t promise you’ll own the ground you walk on but you can have an office on a pretty piece of it—almost as pretty as—,“ He pauses again, voice low with a promise. It’s a different tone from when he told her he cared about her future; this one is more like he cares about where she’s sleeping tonight and if it’s in his bed. It’s careful and clear, a suggestion but never a promise or a question. “As the city in the spring,” he finishes.

The pause is enough—she blushes. He smiles slowly, lopsided without trying" 

“We can give you that.” He nods towards the sum. “It’s yours to have.” He takes a sip from his drink, swirls the remaining dark liquid over the ice while he swallows. Without looking up, he knows he has caught her off guard.

“It’s a lot to take in, honestly.” For the first time since he started working to recruit her, she stutters and stops. 

He presses two fingers to his bottom lip, taps twice. “What do you say?”

“Well,” she smiles slowly, “Hard to say no, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He smiles back even slower, his pink lips drawing back over white teeth. He glances over to where his assistant, Julia is sitting with a plate of fries and a magazine. He nods at her when she feels his gaze and looks back. He’s nearly done here. Julia starts shoving as many fries in her mouth as she can while she gathers some papers and closes the magazines. Some days he thinks he could easily fall in love with her.

“One question,” Annabelle says, catching his attention again. Her eyes dip to where he’s undone the first few buttons on his shirt. It’s Yves Saint Laurent but in a print most people wouldn’t be caught dead in. It happens to be his favorite.

“Anything.” He knows what she’s going to say next before she does.

“Any way I can get you thrown in the deal, too?” She doesn’t back out with an embarrassed laugh like some do.

Last week he had a guy offer to take him out to dinner and blow him under the table followed by an adamant plea that he wasn’t gay at all and didn’t know what he was saying. Harry has this answer ready to go just like the others. Everything he does is calculated and aimed to get him somewhere else. He’s well aware of the buttons to push to make someone think that just this one time, just for _them_ , he’ll lose control.

Except, he never does. Not for this.

He blinks once, slowly, and then, “Oh, you know I would if I could.” One beat of a pause and a sweet smile. “Is this you signing on then?”

“I think it is,” she says just like the others.

“Good.” He makes sure not to break eye contact and to say it slowly, like it’s good for her instead of him. “Julia will be over in a moment to take you back to the office to sign. Congratulations, love.”

Annabelle hasn’t quite given up yet, twirling a finger in her hair again. She knows her money is coming, her job is secured, and now she wants to add to her earnings. It’s his cue to leave.

He leans across the table to shake her hand with a genuine smile before he stands; By signing tonight she’s just gotten him tomorrow, a Friday, off. Julia slides into his chair with a sweeter smile than his, overtaking the conversation easily the way she always does.

They’ve been doing this for three years; Julia reads Harry’s cues almost as well as he reads everyone else.

Harry grabs his black jacket from the back of the chair and pulls it on as he walks away.

He takes a stick of mint gum from his back pocket and unwraps it as he comes out of the Sky View Lounge to the sidewalk where the line for the club below is already wrapping around the edge of the building. The women with red lips and guys with slicked back hair, waiting for the promise of inside—the drinks they can drown in, the pills they can press between tongues -- the chance to see and be seen. Harry Styles used to be the first one in line for a night like that.

Not anymore.

A black town car is already waiting for him near the curb and he makes a beeline for it, not in the mood for the illusion of friendly faces.

“Haz, babe, you’re not coming out?”

He drops his hand from the door handle to turn towards Daisy’s familiar voice. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head, her lips done in a devastating dark purple. His mouth rearranges into a smile without his permission as he gives her a one armed hug and presses his lips right to her cheek.

“Not tonight, Dais.”

She pouts and he laughs. The sound is hollow to his ears.

“You can’t hide from us forever,” she says.

The words shouldn’t send a shiver up his back but he can feel his skin prickling all the same. “Oh, but I can try.”

She thinks it’s funny, she thinks it’s the classic Harry Styles charm as she throws her head back laughing again. Daisy says something else but this time he doesn’t listen, pulling open the car door and sliding in without looking back.

“Where we going, H?” His usual driver, James, looks over his shoulder as he pulls out onto the street. 

“Just home, please.”

The city rushes by in the darkness casting shadows into the car. Out front of his apartment, he wishes James a goodnight before he goes in. The doorman is there, Charlie, and he waves towards Harry, a smile on his face.

In the elevator, Harry ignores his reflection along the mirrored walls as he waits to arrive at his floor. It’s been two years and though things are different, though things are supposed to be better, sometimes he’s still terrified of his reflection. Terrified to look up and see the person he once was—the person he never wanted to become. Scared, maybe more, of looking up to see that it’s the person he still is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes: "Drowning Shadows" Sam Smith
> 
>  


	2. I

 

The leather is cool where Zayn rests his hand, smooth under his warm palm. He’s been trying to keep from sweating, letting his nerves turn into something everyone else can actually see. He swallows and straightens his legs in the backseat. There’s room to do that and then some in the back of the town car by himself.

It’s not something he would have known less than six months ago, sitting in his shitty office in London experimenting with concept design, wondering if his destiny was to be trapped at a dead end in a place that had a crack in the ceiling with a blue bucket sitting underneath to catch water on rainy days.

The view outside the windows, New York, is unfamiliar. The buildings crowd together and reaching up higher than he can curve his neck from where he’s sitting in the car. His hotel room barely looks out over anything and he’s staying on the twenty-seventh floor.

His direct flight from London had landed late in the morning and he was to the hotel less than two hours later. He’d barely taken the time to notice his room, the deep burgundy duvet and heavy grey curtains over the tall windows, just slipped into the bed and fell soundly asleep.

When he woke up to the trilling sound of his alarm, he looked around long enough to snoop through the mini bar and give himself a vertigo sensation by standing too close to the windows. Then, he’d gotten a call from the front desk that a car was there to pick him up for his meeting. He laughed when the front desk referred to him as Mr. Malik as if he was an undercover agent and not just a guy on a job interview.

The mere thought of _interview_ sends Liam’s voice echoing back through his head, “It’s not an interview. You’ve got it already, Zayn. This is just them trying to seal the deal. You’ve got to make them kiss your fucking feet, bro.” Zayn smirks, taps his fingers against the seat next to him.

Liam has been his best friend since they were fifteen and the one person who has been the most excited about the final phase of this process after Zayn had broken the news to him. “You know I’ll have to move to New York if I take it, right?”

“Yeah, but I love New York,” Liam had said back easily.

As far as Zayn knows, Liam’s never even been.

“Mr. Malik?” The car slows; He can hear the dull click of a turn signal as the driver pulls to the side. “This is your stop.”

The driver is named Tom, he introduced himself back at the hotel when he held the door for Zayn and then shut it after him. Zayn hadn’t expected all of this fanfare around his visit and it has only intensified the nervous sparks in his stomach. The same sparks he’s felt for the last two weeks, or since he got the call from Max Marquez, President of Verve, asking him to come to New York and make a final decision.

He clears his throat and tugs on his black pants to straighten them as if by impulse before reaching for the door. He says a quick thanks to Tom as he gets out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning the building in front of him—the dark brick and silver doors, an architecturally modern take. He takes another deep breath, seemingly can’t get enough of them in the last twenty minutes, and heads inside.

The meeting is in the bar of the Soho House, which, requires Zayn’s name at the front desk before he’s carefully escorted back through the lobby and then dropped in front of a hostess station with a watchful gaze as if he might run away and ruin something.

“It should be just a moment.” The woman who has brought him this far smiles tightly before disappearing back the way they came.

He checks his watch, still fifteen minutes early, and paces around the waiting area. It’s not that big of a space and he ends up walking in a tight line, trying to remember things like the basics on his resume lest he forget them before the meeting even starts.

“Can I help you?” An older man appears behind the small host stand, dressed in a smart suit with thick black-rimmed glasses holding an iPad against his chest.

“Sure, yeah. I’m meeting someone” he says, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to stop pacing. “I’m Zayn Malik.”

The man drags his finger down the tablet, lips pursed before clicking on something and meeting Zayn’s eyes again. “Looks like you’re the first of your party here. I’ll show you to your table if you’d like.”

Zayn nods, following him back into the depths of the bar.

It’s dimly lit with lamps mounted along the walls, plush red booths and high tables, a dark wooden bar running on the far side. There are a few people scattered around but they all talk quietly as if they’re scared someone else will hear their secretive conversation.

There’s faint piano music playing somewhere, rising in volume the further he follows the host, and then fading out as they take a grand staircase off to the side. Zayn lets his hand run along the railing as he walks, watching over the edge at the floor below. The second floor is empty of people though the same lush red booths line the edges, the piano music from downstairs a distant flutter. Instead, something softer plays through the speakers up here.

“Right here, sir.” The host gestures to a booth on the left and Zayn nods, thanks him and slides in. There is a menu standing in the middle of the table and a small candle to the side. As the host walks away Zayn has to wipe his palms against his pants, nerves rising up again.

He shouldn’t be this nervous, he knows. The ball is in his court this time, the decision about whether he signs the contract at the end of the week completely up to him. He’s done the hard part, technically; impressed the people who matter enough to offer him a contract. Now it’s up to them to impress him right on back, enough to make him want to stay in New York, enough to leave the only place he’s ever known. The thought makes something tighten in his stomach all over again.

The man he’s meeting tonight is an executive recruiter according to the title at the bottom of his emails--a liaison to Verve, the agency that somehow wants Zayn. He’s been talking to the recruiter over email as he helped Zayn to make travel arrangements and organize an itinerary. He’s been perfectly polite and, if email etiquette is anything to go by, Zayn shouldn’t have anything to be nervous about. Somehow, his brain, stomach, and the blood rushing in his ears haven’t quite gotten the message.

Zayn takes the menu from the center of the table, noting the design down the sides—intertwined lines of different lengths without distracting from the text. He flips it over so he can’t analyze it any more—creative analysis has always been his nerve-induced fall back.

Movement out of the corner of his eye makes him look towards the stairs where a woman in a black dress is standing. She’s speaking to someone over her shoulder and out of view, further down the steps. Zayn watches carefully, waiting.

The moment she starts walking towards Zayn is the first moment that Zayn sees him.

The man following behind her is tall, dressed in a white suit printed with floral patterns and the flared trouser bottoms Zayn has seen making a full circle in fashion houses the past few seasons. His hair, dark chestnut, brushes his shoulders and he has a strong jawline with smooth skin and a smirk on his lips when he meets Zayn’s eyes.

“Mr. Malik?” The woman stands in front of the booth, and smiles at him. “I’m Julia. This is Mr. Styles.”

Zayn stands up out of the booth too quickly and knocks his hip against the table as he does making the candle shudder. Harry Styles is decidedly not a thing like what he’d been picturing when he had tried to decipher what kind of person sells jobs for a living.  

“Mr. Malik.” Harry Styles holds out his hand once Zayn stands, his voice a smooth drawl with the inflection to his tone that sounds vaguely like home. Zayn would never have pegged him as British over their written conversations.

“Zayn is fine,” he says, taking Harry’s hand in his and shaking it firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure is mine,” he says and Zayn is struck, again, by his tone. He turns slightly towards the woman beside him. “This is my assistant, Julia.”

Zayn shakes her hand too, as she introduces herself, her voice distinctly American but pleasant all the same. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she says. “Zayn if you need anything while you’re in the city, don’t hesitate. And Mr. Styles?” She turns back towards Harry, lips twitching in a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” He watches her walk away for a moment. “Shall we?” He gestures back towards the table, sliding into the opposite side of the booth as Zayn, straightening his suit jacket as he goes. Zayn is used to outlandish fashion but more so at shoots or on red carpets, not in a bar on Monday night. He nearly tells Harry Styles that he’s not as important as his red carpet outfit suggests just in case there’s any confusion. He stays quiet instead.

Zayn watches as Harry takes two phones out of the inside breast pocket of his suit, a rose gold iPhone followed by a silver version, stacking them one on top of the other near the back edge of the table.

“How was your flight?” He asks, flipping the menu back over and pulling it towards himself.

“It was good,” Zayn says, hands clasped together in his lap. “I don’t fly often so it always trips me up a bit but survivable.” He smiles amiably and waits for Harry to look up from the menu. It takes more than a moment.

“Excellent, excellent,” he says, nodding when he finally does, smiling like Zayn has told him some sort of secret.

Zayn clears his throat, rubs his hands down his pants again. It’s a bad habit he really needs to get under control.

Harry smiles, “Well, I know we’re all excited you’re here so, I’m glad you made it safely.” That, at least, sounds genuine.

“I’m really pleased to be here as well,” Zayn says, finger tracing along the wood grain of the table. “It should be a good experience to like, get to know the team and everything. And the city of course.”

Harry nods along, pursing his lips while Zayn speaks, which--he’s not sure why he’s doing that, really. “Of course,” he says. “It’s more than just a job you’re deciding on. That’s where I come in, of course. I’m in charge of making you fall in love with the city. I’ll give you the real New York experience.” He pauses and his lip twitches, thinking. “Authentic, you know?”

Zayn raises his eyebrows minutely, “Sure, yeah.” The private dining and town car lead him to believe authentic is not a word Harry truly understands.

The repetitive sound of clicking heels catches Zayn’s attention again as a waitress comes over with two glasses of a dull colored drink, each completed with a grapefruit slice halved against their rims.

“Thank you, Luna,” Harry says, accepting both glasses and setting one in front of Zayn. “You know me too well.” He winks at her as she backs away.

Zayn swirls the black straw around in his drink, a muted golden color but thicker than a beer.

“It’s called ‘Emperor’s Water’,” Harry says as though Zayn has asked out loud. “A couple of my friends are actually the primary investors of the tequila it’s made with. I always get it whenever I come here.”

Zayn is far from impressed at the name drop--hardly a name drop and more of a financial worth drop, to be fair. He takes a drink instead of saying anything and is surprised by the acidity, harsh on his tongue. “Very citrusy,” is all he gets out. Harry blinks at him.

“Are you from the UK, then?” Zayn asks, scooting his drink slightly to the side.

Harry smirks, “What gave me away?” Zayn laughs at that. “I’m from a little town up north, Holmes Chapel of Cheshire. Not sure if you’ve heard of it.”

Zayn has heard of it. Heard of the new money that strings the community together, the posh accents and exclusive properties. Most of it he got from an episode of Real Housewives he’ll never admit to seeing from last year. For the moment, he tries to give Harry the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, not too much. I’m from Bradford originally, so up north as well.” He realizes that Harry must already know where he’s from -- He’s a recruiter after all. “Are you always in New York or split time?”

“New York is home now,” Harry says, taking a sip from his drink and then circling his straw gently. “I went to university in the states and fell in love with the city. Couldn’t bring myself to ever leave.”

His voice is almost wistful. Zayn bites his lip against the way the hair raises on the back of his neck. There’s something half-hidden about the way Harry talks and Zayn can only feel it without pin pointing it exactly. He starts to ask where Harry went to school when Harry interrupts him.

“Enough about me,” he says, one hand waving between them, “Tell me more about where you work. An independent agency, yeah?”

Zayn takes the conversation topic in stride though having to talk about himself is far from a strong alternative. Liam has been coaching him for the past couple of months while the deal with Verve has been negotiated, made him recite his resume and then again with more “ _personality”_ and then one more time without sounding like “his childhood pet was dying”.

He amuses himself by throwing in odds and ends that Harry might not already know about him, projects he hasn’t talked about in his interviews yet and the blue bucket in the corner of his office that catches the water from the leaky ceiling. He tries to keep it interesting, the way Liam coached him but he loses fervor as he realizes Harry is hardly listening.

Harry, for his part, sips his drink and presses the center button on the silver iPhone before locking it again. He does an obnoxious thing with his hair where he brushes it all forward and then drags his hand back through it to make it a little fluffier at the top. When he does finally look at Zayn he just nods and hums along. Zayn knows the trick well, knows Harry couldn’t actually care any less. Disheartening is the best word for it.

Slowly, he stops speaking. Goes silent in the middle of a story and takes a sip of his too expensive tequila to fill the silence.

“That’s brilliant,” Harry says, solidifying Zayn’s suspicion he hasn’t followed a word. “I think that you’ll really enjoy meeting the team this week and getting a taste of the lifestyle here.”

Zayn is starting to feel uneasy, unsure about whether he’s made the right choice to come this far.

“Yeah, sorry I don’t have the itinerary memorized,” he says, smiling slightly, “That’s all tomorrow right?”

Harry takes the silver phone from beneath the rose gold one and unlocks it quickly. “That’s a really good idea, Zayn. Let’s go over the schedule.”

Zayn doesn’t mention it wasn’t his idea at all. Going over the schedule does ease his mind and stomach slightly, as does the reminder he won’t be working with the likes of Harry Styles if he takes this job. His ears catch on the words formal gala and he refocuses on Harry. “Sorry, formal gala?”

“Basically an industry party,” Harry says easily, nonchalant like everyone should know what it is. “Gala is just the fancy word. I believe this week is a concept launch for a Gucci campaign,” he says, one eye squinting. “They’re the ones who gave me this suit,” he adds as an aside. “Basically a room full of all the biggest creatives, getting drunk and rubbing elbows.” He looks meaningfully at Zayn, “That’s part of this job, you know. The respect that surrounds it, people _want_ to know you.”

Absently, Zayn wonders if he gives off the vibe as someone who wants to be known. He’s always been satisfied slipping under the radar, recognized appropriately at times but never flaunted or flashy. The reason for pursuing this job had been the desire to step out on his own, prove he was capable. It’s never crossed his mind to covet the things Harry seems ready to hand him. He bites his tongue and nods. Regardless of how he feels about Harry Styles, he knows he needs to focus on the things that actually matter. This man is not one of them.

Harry finishes the schedule for the week fairly quickly, brushing over Zayn’s signing deadline of Thursday at midnight with no more mentions of galas. “I’ll be with you most of the time. If you ever need anything, call me, or my assistant of course.” He pulls a business card from the inside of his jacket and slides it across the table. “Any hour of the day or night,” he says, smirking slightly, “Feel free.”

There’s something seductive and flirtatious in his voice. Zayn has to still his eyes from rolling in their sockets. Zayn takes the card and slides it in his own pocket. “If I call you, which phone will ring?”

He catches Harry off guard, he can tell by the way he blinks at him. “Sorry?”

“If I call the number on the card,” Zayn says, trying not to laugh. “Which of your phones does it connect to?”

Harry purses his lips, and his eyes seem to narrow. It only lasts the flash of a moment before he smiles again. “Silver one.” He holds it up, between two fingers. “Why?”

Zayn shrugs, “Guess I’m just a curious kind of guy.”

Harry eyes flicker, “Any other curiosities I can help you out with?”

There are. Zayn wants to know what part of the city is the best to live in, which parts will remind him the most of London and which of the landmarks are overhyped to the point of exhaustion. He wants to know whether he’ll have the creative freedom he wants, if he can take time to still go home and see his parents and sisters. He wants to know if he’ll need two iPhones as well. Harry doesn’t seem like the right person to answer those questions.

Zayn tilts his head, ready to say no. “Is that a butterfly on your suit?” He laughs in surprise at himself and despite it.

Harry follows Zayn’s eyes down to his ribs where there is, in fact, a black butterfly intertwined among the vines printed on his suit. “There is, yes. I thought it was quite fitting for today.”

Zayn waits, already knowing Harry will keep going.

“I mean, butterflies are the sign of a new beginning, taking flight.” He shrugs and takes a drink from his nearly empty glass. “Fitting.”

Zayn stares and tries to keep his face composed. Never has he met someone so full of it. “Or you just really like butterflies.”

It’s quiet as Harry looks over his face, the corners of his mouth drawing down. “Or that.”

Zayn gets the distinct feeling Harry doesn’t get a kick out of Zayn’s curiosities.

“I should probably call the cars,” Harry says without his eyes leaving Zayn’s and then finally dropping to the watch on his wrist. “I’m sure you’re jetlagged.”

Zayn feels a bit bad about the whole thing just then. He’s never gone somewhere for just one drink and he doesn’t want to be responsible for cutting off the night early. Before he can indicate anything different, Harry is signaling towards the waiter. Zayn has the subtle and sudden feeling that an hour together was Harry’s plan all along--just another time commitment in his day.

“I can just take a cab this time,” Zayn offers.

Harry shakes his head, fingers moving quickly on his silver phone now. “No, don’t worry about it. We keep the cars on a retainer. Just easier that way.”

Zayn swallows, finishes the last of his drink. “Thank you for tonight. Really.” He tries to not leave everything hanging on this note even if he’s only imagined the tension. “It’s great to finally meet you face to face and I’m excited to spend the week together.” Heat rises to his cheeks and he shakes his head, “Or, rather, with everyone, I mean.”

The misstep clearly gets Harry back on his game; he smiles and looks at Zayn from beneath his eyelashes. “Me as well, Zayn Malik.”

They walk side by side back down the grand staircase and through the main bar, slightly busier now but still the quiet hum Zayn associates with deals being made. Harry rambles off a couple of facts about the architect of the building, about how he was responsible for designing Oprah Winfrey’s house in the Hamptons. Or, something along those lines.

“I believe Tom should be outside,” Harry says in the atrium of the lobby. Like clockwork, a black car pulls along out front, Tom raising one hand to wave at them. Zayn had a feeling Harry would be the type who used to private drivers and assistants without bothering enough to know their names. Clearly, he’s wrong on at least one thing when it comes to Harry.

Zayn says goodbye again, thanks Harry once more.

Harry shakes his hand and holds his gaze. “I think you’ll be a brilliant addition to the team and I’m excited for you to see that too.”

Zayn can feel his cheeks warm with the compliment. Whether genuine or completely fabricated, Harry has an art for delivery. He casts one more glance towards Harry before he heads for the car. Zayn greets Tom as he gets in the backseat, indulges for one moment and allows himself to feel like this life with private cars and members only clubs belongs to him.

Through the window of the atrium he sees Harry still standing there, hands in his trouser pockets. Harry’s smile starts to dim even as he stares, eyes looking somewhere past the car. Zayn looks out the opposite window and sees nothing but more cars passing by. When he turns back towards where Harry has been standing, there’s nothing there either. He gets an eerie feeling when he replays Harry’s face just then, the sensation that he was watching someone take off a mask.

“Ready, Mr. Malik?” Tom smiles kindly over his shoulder.

Nodding, he says, “Sure. And, Tom, if we’re doing this all week, please call me Zayn. Mr. Malik is my dad.”

“Noted.” Tom smiles at him in the rearview mirror as he pulls out into the street.

...

Zayn twists his rings, eyes focused on the table in front of him. There is an assortment of magazines in a perfectly round display lying there, seemingly organized by color and spaced evenly around each other. The glossy smooth covers are untouched as far as he can see and he knows why. If anyone so much as moved one, the entire display would be off kilter, ruined and only able to be put back together by whoever it was who slaved over the arrangement in the first place.

Zayn desperately wants to mess them all up. He knows he really shouldn’t even be considering it since the lobby he’s waiting in is possibly the one he’ll walk through every day for the rest of his career. That thought sends weight down into his stomach and he has to remind himself to breathe.

Tom dropped him off at the Verve building twenty minutes early this morning and Zayn has been sitting on the cool, black leather seat since, twisting his rings around his fingers. He has his bag at his feet, full with his portfolio should he need it again and a folded copy of the itinerary from Harry, one that says he won’t be seeing Executive Recruiter Harry Styles until late afternoon. For that, he is thankful, not wanting to focus on being nice to someone who already comes so easily to dislike.

“Zayn?” He stands at his name, greeted by a woman nearly his age with dark hair pulled in a bun, a folder sitting in the crook of her arm. “We’re ready for you.”

Her handshake is firm and her eyes hold his gaze, no judgment in them. She introduces herself as Kia, Max Marquez’s assistant and starts to lead him back towards a hallway behind the reception desk.

He has to stop before they get very far at all, realizing he’s left his bag where he had been sitting. He rushes back to hook it over his shoulder and then returns to her, one hand running through his hair to tame it.

“Relax, Zayn,” she whispers as they start walking, “This is supposed to be fun.” She smiles gently and he tries to mirror it.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” he mutters.

She laughs and it echoes off the marble walls around them, somehow shattering the coldness, releasing something deep in his gut and reminding him of the position he’s in. He holds his head up higher and makes a comment about one of the framed campaigns hanging in the hallway—a shoot he had admired when it first released without realizing where he’d be now. Kia seems impressed as she leads him into a boardroom with glass windows. He knows Liam would be beaming like a proud father if he could see him now.

...

It turns out someone actually does read from the pristine arrangement of magazines in the lobby of Verve– Harry Styles, that is. That’s how Zayn finds him in the afternoon; sitting in one of the leather chairs with a Vogue spread open on his lap. He’s in a pair of black pants with a white floral design splattered all across them – similar to the suit from the day before but without a butterfly – and a long sleeved black shirt with the cuffs rolled up his forearms. Zayn notices ink he hadn’t noted the day before, an anchor and the lower half of what might be a mermaid. Harry’s hair is tucked behind one ear and he pulls at his bottom lip as he reads, his thumb running over the edge of the pages.  
Zayn clears his throat as soon as he realizes he’s been staring. Harry moves slowly when he looks up, almost as if he already knew Zayn has been standing there.  
“Zayn Malik,” he says at the same time he closes the magazine. He squats down near the table in the center of the room and edges the magazine back in the neat arc before standing up.

“Harry Styles,” Zayn says with a nod. “How are you?”  
“Very well, thanks.” His pants flare out at the bottom again and Zayn stares another beat too long before Harry speaks again. “How were your meetings?” He takes out his phone – the rose gold one – as he says it, unlocking it using his pointer finger.  
The meetings were phenomenal, according to Zayn. He sat in on a presentation and actually collaborated with the team, coming up with ideas. He felt like he belonged at the table with the rest of them, the guy with the tortoise shell glasses and the girl with dreadlocks and bright blue eyes -- it felt like what he’s been waiting for.

Max Marquez pulled him aside around lunch and told him he’d be a valuable asset and a remarkable addition. He told him to take the week to make sure it’s what he wants and there will be a contract with his name on it when Thursday comes. He’d been so genuine, told Zayn he wouldn’t bullshit him and hoped Zayn would offer him the same in return. Zayn spent most of the day trying not to jump up and down, quite honestly.

While he tries to figure out a way to articulate it, the day he’s had, he notices Harry isn’t listening, typing out something on his phone and scrunching his nose.  
“They were, uh, good,” Zayn says, tucking his hands in the pockets of his pants. His fashion statement is subtle compared to Harry’s -- a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms.  
Harry nods like Zayn has just said more than a few words. “That’s excellent,” he says, eyes boring right into Zayn’s as he tucks his phone away. He keeps looking at Zayn like he’s waiting for him to say something, blinking prettily in the silence. It feels like a weird game, same as the night before, but Zayn refuses to fill the space, to let Harry think he’s been fooled by his half-ass attentiveness.  
“Anyway,” Harry claps his hands together as if nothing strange has happened at all. “I figured we’d do sightseeing stuff tonight.” He barely pauses before his slow voice rolls over a question, “So, what do you want to see first?”  
“I thought you were in charge of making me fall in love with the city?” Zayn raises his eyebrows, repeating Harry’s words from the night before. “So shouldn’t you choose where we go?”  
Harry smiles again. “Well, Zayn Malik, it’s always polite to ask your guests what they want to do first.”  
“Niceties aside,” Zayn says, licking his bottom lip quickly, “I’ve never been here, mate. I couldn’t tell you the first place I’d want to go. So,” he motions vaguely with his hands, “Lead the way.”

...

Harry’s lead starts by calling a car for them to share, and then sharing silence once they’re in the car as he browses through his Instagram feed with his long, floral-printed legs out in front of him. Zayn uses the time to catch up on emails and a few texts.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches monochrome images on Harry’s phone, some splashes of bright colors that are almost tropical beneath his ringed fingers. He pauses over a picture of someone’s feet on an artfully tiled floor and that’s when he catches Zayn watching him. They lock eyes and Zayn nearly looks away first but Harry beats him, pressing the side button to lock his phone and dropping it in his lap.

“Sorry,” he says. “Most of the time people are so entranced by driving through the city, I try not to interrupt.”

Zayn is pretty sure he just doesn’t care. Or, care about the people he works with at least. He cares about a paycheck at the end and keeping up appearances in the process. Zayn wonders how many people Harry’s worked with who have been charmed by his slow drawl and seemingly keen interest. He wonders if he’s dealt with anyone who has seen right through it yet.

“It’s just a city though, yeah?” Zayn twists one of his own rings and then drops his hands back in his lap. “What it looks like isn’t necessarily what makes it good.”

Harry watches him carefully, “And what makes a good city?”

He shrugs, “Not sure there’s an exact recipe. Some places are made for the views, others smell like fish but you make memories with your friends and it’s not so bad after all.”

Harry smirks at that. “Were you just describing Manchester?”

“Posh boy like you, I didn’t realize you’d recognize it.” Zayn feels like an ass for saying it until Harry starts laughing, timid at first until he’s grinning and clearly trying to stop.

“This posh boy can show you a thing or two yet,” he says with a smirk, turning to look back out the window.

Zayn decides to go easy for the duration of the ride, looking out his own window at the cement buildings flashing by. He opts out of sarcastically mooning over the views at the risk of offending Harry.

The car stops and Zayn isn’t confident about where they are until they get out and he sees the Empire State Building sign squarely in front of his face.

They bypass the line that curves around the edge of the lobby as Harry ushers Zayn towards a VIP area. It’s almost worse than waiting in line for all the snide looks they get as they pass everyone else by. Harry keeps his eyes straight ahead, hands tucked into the pockets of his ridiculous trousers like he’s on a red carpet. Zayn tries to keep from lifting his eyes off the ground so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with anyone. Harry waves at one of the attendants and then whispers something in his ear that gets them both escorted towards one of the back elevators separated with a velvet red rope. Its so tacky Zayn almost cringes.

“I thought part of the appeal was taking the stairs,” Zayn says once Harry presses the call button for the elevator.

Harry looks over with his mouth open before clearing his throat and thinking better of whatever he was planning to say. “Not really. There’s an annual run every year where people race on the stairs but it’s not for the general public usually.”

Zayn nods and looks away which Harry must take as petulance.

“I can arrange for us to take the stairs if you want. I just figured there were so many other things to see in the city.” He grins when Zayn looks at him, “Didn’t want to waste your time.”

The doors slide open then and Zayn steps inside with a shrug. “Wouldn’t want you to mess up your pretty hair anyhow.”

He likes the way Harry’s eyebrows pull together when he steps in after Zayn, the way he runs a hand back through his hair before he chokes out a delayed half laugh.

“Where did you go to school?” Zayn asks after a few floors tick by. He’d rather not think about how far up they’re going. No point in embarrassing himself unnecessarily.

“NYU.” Harry says. “I studied Business and Marketing right in the middle of the city. I couldn’t make myself leave once I’d finished.” He smiles and its so rehearsed Zayn has to keep his lip from curling.  

“Are you going to ask me where I went?” He asks when the silence starts weighing. He’d figured Harry was supposed to make everything go smooth yet the gaps of silence are quickly becoming disorienting.

“University of College in London,” Harry says quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Do you know what I studied in school, too?”

“English and then Design in your last year,” Harry says it all so confidently—so proud of his knowledge of Zayn despite him being an almost stranger.

“So every conversation we’re going to have this week, you’ll already know what I’m going to say?” Zayn tries to keep his voice light.

A grin slowly crawling across his lips, Harry says, “Yup.”

Zayn studies the lights illuminating on the wall as the elevator keeps going. He can see Harry fidgeting over in the corner, the cool exterior cracking just slightly. “Isn’t that boring? Knowing everything about someone before you even meet them?” He reminds himself that it’s literally Harry’s job a second too late.

Harry shrugs, the smug exterior back so soon. “Maybe. Just another part of the job, I suppose.”

Zayn nods, “Right. Well if you think of something you don’t already know, feel free to ask.”

The doors ping open at the top floor, the eighty-sixth, letting the late afternoon light flood into the space.

Harry steps out first this time, “If you think of something that will surprise me, feel free to share.” He winks before clasping his hands behind his back and leading Zayn towards the edge.

It’s beautiful—really. The way the city splays out before them, blocked only by the high security walls of the viewing deck and the thick metal fence on top of that. It just happens to be the same view Zayn has seen on television and in books, in the pamphlet at the hotel he’s staying in. It doesn’t necessarily take his breath away in real life.

“That’s Verve over there.” Harry points towards the left and Zayn hums at the one tiny building in the scheme of thousands.

“This is one of the first places I came when I moved to New York, actually,” Harry says, his voice taking on a quieter tone. “I marched right up to this wall. All I could think as I looked around was that this is where I’m supposed to be. This is the city where dreams come true, where history is made. And I was standing on top of it.” He sighs, “Still as breathtaking as that day.”

Zayn bites his lip and looks over at Harry, a giggle slipping between his lips. The look on Harry’s face when he meets his gaze, one of wistful hope turning to shock, only makes Zayn lose control further. The giggle turns into more of a laugh and he has to cover his mouth with his hand.  

“What is it?” Harry’s eyebrows pull together again.

“That,” Zayn shakes his head and tries to stop laughing, “That was the biggest load of bullshit that I’ve ever heard.”

Harry doesn’t crack a smile.

“Seriously, man. You can’t think I’d actually believe all that?” The smile starts to fade from Zayn’s lips the longer Harry just stares at him, his jaw flexing. Zayn clears his throat. “I mean, if that’s your first experience in New York story, that’s chill. It just sound like something I’ve read in a book somewhere.”

Harry doesn’t say anything just looks down at his watch and then back at Zayn. “We can probably hang out for a couple more minutes before we have to go to the next place.”

“Sure, yeah.” Go figure he’s offended the unflappable Harry Styles while eighty-six stories above the hard cement. Of course.

The next time they get out of the car it’s in the heart of Times Square with taxicabs flying past and people pushing in on every edge. Zayn almost expects them to stand in a VIP section of the sidewalk but Harry settles for standing right in the center with Zayn next him, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s the heart of the city,” Harry says. “Just beautiful.”

When Zayn glances over at Harry it’s only to see that his green eyes are trained right on the side of Zayn’s head, his gaze so focused when his eyes meet Zayn’s he almost wants to look away. What kind of power a man like Harry Styles must have.

He parts his lips to ask what exactly Harry thinks is so beautiful when Harry speaks first. “The city, I mean.”

Zayn nods and goes back to looking up at the skyscrapers and lit up billboards, steadfastly ignoring the slight burning suddenly in his cheeks. It is pretty with all of the lights and people, the grandeur of one simple block. As long as the smell of piss and the hot steam from the subway grates doesn’t make them nauseous.

“Sometimes it’s nice to be down on the ground, the very center of it all, you know? Reminds me of where it started,” Harry says.

Zayn tries to suppress a groan, and just barely manages to not roll his eyes. Harry is staring at him expectantly, a mask of gentility over his features.

“It’s proper inspirational, like.” Zayn says looking around again, “Just being down here and knowing the whole city could be at my fingertips.” He meets Harry’s gaze and gets the satisfaction of watching Harry’s face transform from smug satisfaction to the realization that Zayn is biting down on yet another smile as he wiggles his fingers in a poor assimilation of jazz hands.

Harry’s lips twitch and he turns on his heel to go back to the car like he’s on a mission. “Come on, next stop,” he says over his shoulder, no venom laced in his words despite Zayn’s teasing.

Zayn has to walk even faster to catch up with him, standing just beyond his shoulder.

“How many things do you actually have planned?” He asks, a little breathless from his attempts to keep up with Harry’s Amazonian legs.

“A few,” Harry says, grabbing onto Zayn’s wrist to pull him through a particularly murky group of tourists trying to take a picture. He looks back over his shoulder, “That okay?”

It doesn’t sound like an actual question coming from his lips and Zayn wonders if anyone ever tells Harry Styles no.

As if Zayn should expect anything less, dinner is in a restaurant in another tall building but this time only near the very top. If he had to tell it, New York takes place up near the clouds, a city obsessed with being as high as possible and looking out like they’re in some sort of kingdom. Or maybe that’s just Harry.

“I love this place,” Harry says leaning back against his chair once the waitress takes their orders – steak for Zayn and grilled shrimp with steamed broccoli for Harry.

Zayn messes with the fork at his place setting before grounding his hands to his lap. “You eat here a lot, then?”

“From time to time,” Harry answers in the vaguely non-committal way he has for the past day and a half. It’s kind of driving Zayn crazy, is the thing -- the loose answers and wistful stories; fancy suits and done up hair.

“With work or for fun?” Zayn presses wanting an honest answer out of Harry.

Harry shrugs, “It has one of the best views of the city.”

It has to be one of the worst non-answers Zayn has ever heard and he’s thankful when the waitress shows up with a bottle of wine, pouring hearty glasses for each of them.

Harry lifts his glass, the dull candlelight bouncing off of his rings. “Shall we toast?”

The glass is already pressed to Zayn’s lips but he pulls it down out of politeness. “Let’s.”

Harry is good, is the thing. Really good. Maybe if Zayn wasn’t bored by people putting on an act, maybe if he was the kind of person impressed by bright lights and pretty views, he would have been dancing right into Harry’s palm three hours ago. Instead, he’s struck by an itch in his fingers -- an itch to mess things up and take them apart just to see how they work. He wants to poke holes in Harry’s pristine exterior, pull off the mask he’s put on as he spoon feeds lines to Zayn.

“Here’s to taking chances.” Harry tilts his glass forward with the corner of his lips quirked up. Zayn knocks his glass against Harry’s with a bit too much force to be necessary before tossing it back, cutting off Harry’s chance to keep adding to yet another fake-deep inspiring speech.

They fall into conversation with Harry directing the line of questioning, not giving Zayn a chance to turn anything back on him. It’s like a strange version of an interview except Zayn doesn’t care about whether his answers impress Harry. He knows Harry is just a vehicle to getting the job, and if Zayn chooses to accept it, he’ll probably never even see him again.

The waitress comes with the check once they’re finished eating and Zayn can’t help his eagerness to get away from Harry Styles. He’s exhausting to talk to--everything is an inquiry without reprieve and he can never tell if Harry is actually listening. Zayn wouldn’t mind letting someone else talk for a change. All told, the week ahead with Harry seems quite daunting.

“Are you okay?” Harry’s voice pulls Zayn from his brooding.

He offers a smile, “Fine. Just tired is all. I think I should probably head back to the hotel.”

“Are you sure?” Harry checks his watch, “We can go grab a drink and then there’s a bar a few blocks away my friend owns and we could do bottle service—the whole thing.”

Zayn doesn’t miss the way his tone doesn’t quite match his words. There’s reluctance tucked between his offer, at the chance Zayn will say yes.

“I really don’t think I can.” He reads the relief on Harry’s face like a blueprint map.

They’re both quiet in the car, looking out their respective windows -- Zayn just trying to keep his eyes open. He really is jetlagged plus the added exhaustion from the day seeping in quickly.

He slowly recognizes the street they’re on and that feels like an accomplishment, one little tick mark on his list of requirements to make somewhere feel like home. It could be any city but he always looks for the signs that point him in the right direction, show him he’s not lost indefinitely.

Harry clears his throat and Zayn glances over. “There’s a suit fitting tomorrow morning for the launch gala. I can’t remember if that’s on your schedule or not.”

Folded up in the bottom of his bag is Zayn’s copy of the itinerary. He can say with certainty he hasn’t looked past one day at a time and he shrugs in answer. “Do I need a new suit?”

Harry scoffs and Zayn feels about twelve years old. He wonders if Harry even knows or if that was the intention. “When you work in the industry you have to dress to be a part of it,” he says. “Designers want you to wear their stuff.”

He smiles but Zayn can’t tell what’s behind it -- mirth, sarcasm or something scarier. “Then I guess I’ll be there,” he says.

Harry unlocks his phone and types something in as the car slows, his hair falling in front of his face. “I’ll have Tom pick you up around eight, then.”

“I can still take a taxi, you know.” Zayn unhooks his seatbelt but makes no move to get out.

Harry smiles when he looks up at him before finishing something on his phone. “You’re just going to keep fighting me on this aren’t you? It’s easier this way, trust me.”

Zayn tries not to roll his eyes, “Yeah, heaven forbid I try to take the subway, right?”

Harry gasps and puts a hand over his mouth, “You would never.”

Hate is a strong word but, _god,_ does Harry push his buttons in all of the wrong ways. He avoids muttering, _whatever_ as he gets out of the car. Harry starts to take off his seatbelt and Zayn stops, one foot out the door.

“What, are you coming up to my room, too?”

“Sign the contract and I’m yours.” Harry winks and Zayn’s lip curls a bit. He can’t help it.

Harry smiles, “I’m kidding. Have a good night Zayn.” He readjusts the seatbelt and Zayn realizes he was never taking it off to begin with only moving it around.

Zayn gets out of the car without another word.  
He has two days left to make a decision and he’s not sure where to even begin.

...

Zayn is not confident as to what he’s supposed to wear to a suit fitting. The next morning, he spends too long contemplating an outfit and then ends up grabbing the first things he sees -- a well-worn jumper and a pair of jeans--when he gets the call from the front desk that Tom is there for him. He slips into combat boots at the last minute before he nearly runs out the door in socked feet.

Harry is waiting just inside the lobby of the address he’d given to Zayn. He’s leaning against a wall with his phone in hand, chewing a piece of gum slowly and with is mouth open, like a cow out to pasture. Whereas Zayn feels like he could do with a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep, Harry is ready to go in another suit -- this time a simple black jacket over a looser white button down. It gapes over his chest and Zayn sees inked birds and muscle definition before promptly looking away.

“You’re staring at me,” Harry says by way of greeting.

“More like wondering why you’ve come to the suit fitting already in a suit.”

Harry adjusts his jacket and glances down at his feet, caramel colored boots Zayn sees as he follows his gaze. “This is a day suit, Zayn.”

“I didn’t know there was even a difference.”

Harry stares at him, chomps his gum a couple of times. “Yeah,” he says, voice full of whispered sarcasm.

Not going to crack first, Zayn stares back at him, daring him to break face or start laughing. Whenever Zayn does this with Liam, he always wins. Liam can’t handle a stare down. By the looks of it, Harry most definitely can.

Catching himself in a staring contest with a client must not be on the itinerary because Harry suddenly clears his throat and looks away, “Shall we?”

He leads the way to where the fitting is taking place in a studio, racks of clothes lined around the edges and casually gorgeous people walking around or standing stock still while someone else measures and pins their outfits.

“The models are here,” Harry announces, leading Zayn towards the far wall. “I’m not talking about us obviously.” He motions vaguely towards a group of people taller than both of them with beautiful bone structure and tight smiles.

Harry flashes his signature smile and Zayn drawls back, “Obviously.”

Before they can get swept away by a moving rack of black and gold dresses, a woman with dark hair scoops them to the side, or more pulls at Harry and Zayn follows out of necessity.

“Harry, love,” she says, both hands on his face. “It’s so good to see you.” She kisses his cheek and leaves a ruby red smear.

Wiping at his cheek, Harry introduces Zayn. “Robyn, this is Zayn Malik. Potentially the new face of creative direction for Verve.”

Robyn puts her hands on her hips and eyes Zayn, “You better say yes because I might just fall in love with dressing you.”

Zayn blushes and Harry rolls his eyes. “Robyn is a stylist for all the best agencies, but spends most of her time preying on unsuspecting victims.”

Robyn reaches out and smacks Harry’s arm, “He looks like a bloody Louis Vuitton model, Harry. Don’t tell me you’re so abstinent you didn’t notice.”

Zayn can’t think of what to say and clearly neither is Harry but only for a moment before he’s back with his smile and looking right at Robyn. “I’m sure you’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” Whatever it’s meant to do, it must work because Zayn is being scooted towards a rack of suits and Harry is laughing.

Trying on suits is glamorous for the first line as Zayn stands in front of a three-way mirror with Robyn pulling at the fabric and Harry leaning against the edge of the mirror watching. By the third suit, he realizes it’s a rather exhaustive process.

“Are you just planning to stand there?” He asks Harry from where he stands on a platform so Robyn can check hems. So far, Harry has alternated staring at Zayn with looking at his phone, silent except to give one or two word answers as to what he feels about each outfit. “Don’t you need a suit?”

“Got mine last week,” Harry says, looking up from his phone for the length it takes to actually say the words before looking back down again.

“Go on, get it, Harry. Show Zayn,” Robyn says from where her hands are precariously close to Zayn’s dick checking for fit.

“I don’t know where it is now,” Harry says dismissively, locking his phone and putting it in the back of his suit--or day suit, rather.

Robyn stands straight and puts her hands on her hips, staring at him. “Please, Harry. As if everyone out there wouldn’t trip over themselves trying to find that suit for you.”

Harry purses his lips, casts one last look at Zayn and heads towards the other side of the room, where brighter racks are organized evenly.

“I swear he doesn’t know the effect he has on people sometimes,” she says, turning back to Zayn.

On the contrary, Zayn thinks, the problem is he knows exactly the effect he has on people. He stays quiet and watches three people come up to Harry right as they see him. Despite his earlier hesitation, Harry laughs and hugs one of the girls, lets one of the guys slip his arm around his waist and drag him towards a rack. Harry Styles knows exactly what he’s doing.

“What do you think?” Robyn says, moving in front of Zayn’s eye line and gesturing at his suit, “Are we too far past Bond at this point? Have we reached funeral territory?”

Harry eventually shows back up with his own suit right as Zayn is finishing up and pulling his sweatshirt back over his head. He won’t admit it but Zayn kept a wandering eye on Harry all while he was gone; noticing the way Harry seemed perfectly animated walking around on the other side of the room, far away from Zayn.

“Isn’t that charming?” Robyn says, lifting Harry’s suit from where it’s folder over his arm.

Charming is one word. It looks like a massacre of cherry blossoms to Zayn, deep red fabric with floral overlay everywhere -- a colored version of what Harry wore the first night they met. Clearly he’s a fan of flowers.

“Zayn hates it,” Harry says, smirking while he chews his gum.

“It’s just not my style,” Zayn says as politely as he can with his eyes on Robyn. “Gorgeous find though.”

“Oh, that’s not me.” Robyn points at Harry, “This guy does all of his own styling, sends me pieces he likes and then I track them down from the designers.”

Interesting. Zayn has a flash of an image of Harry sitting in some luxurious armchair in a spotless apartment, flipping through seasonal look books as he plots his next floral-inspired outfit. Out of its own volition, his mind adds in images of a longhaired white cat and a pristine bowl of perfectly ripe fruit on a side table, gives Harry one of those silk robes to complete the picture.

“Sweet,” he says in the midst of trying not to laugh at his own mental image, letting it pop and fade like a soap bubble in his mind.

Harry stares at him silently in a way that’s becoming disconcertingly familiar. Almost as if he’s trying to figure something out, peel back Zayn’s skin and see what’s underneath.

In a breath it’s over and Harry is talking again, thanking Robyn and kissing her cheek, the picture of poised and polite as Zayn stumbles over his own thank you and promises to see her again. As they walk out, he’s not sure a _promise_ was the best choice of word. Too late to change it now.

The city vibrates with activity as Zayn follows behind Harry on the street much like a stray puppy. People edge each other out of the way to get into buildings, chattering on their phones and dodging in front of traffic to get to the other side of the street. It’s easy to feel tiny and insignificant in a place like this and Zayn likes the anonymity.

Harry points out landmarks as they walk, buildings Zayn has heard about on the news or in classes, nothing particularly interesting. To be honest, he lets his mind zone out after a while, less than interested in a walking historical tour. He does his best to hum and awe every couple of phrases and perhaps Harry knows of his disinterest or he’s just used to no one listening because Zayn’s inattention hardly slows him down.

They loop up a side entrance into a park and Zayn doesn’t have to even guess to know where Harry has brought him.

“This is Central Park.” Harry motions around, “Most visited urban park in America.”

It sounds exactly like copy stolen straight out of a tour guide website. Harry must notice Zayn’s lack of excitement because he glances over as they walk along the path, “Do you have something against parks?”

Zayn shakes his head and tries to keep his emotions from playing across his face so easily. “Not at all. Just tired, I guess.”

Harry points at Zayn, “I know what you need.”

“Doubt it,” Zayn says before he can stop himself. “Kidding,” he adds with a sheepish smile, “Lead the way.”

Evidently what he needs is honey-roasted peanuts, which they can conveniently buy from a little cart on the edge of the park. They taste fine, crunchy and sweet, and leave Zayn’s hands shiny with grease.

Harry eats his own package of nuts happily, discussing the different kinds of nuts that can be ordered as if Zayn hasn’t just looked at the menu himself. They sit on a bench overlooking the park while Harry talks and Zayn retracts further into his thoughts, eyes idly tracing a dog dragging its owner by its leash.

Harry’s voice makes for good background buzz as he transitions to talking about the park, concerts and events that happen there. Zayn highly doubts Harry Styles attends concerts in any sort of park. Especially not in his white suit or any selection of floral pants.

When Zayn pauses everything else and considers it, he knows he wants the job at Verve. It’s the whole reason he’s here, the entire premise of how he’s ended up sitting at a park with Harry Styles.

He knows he can’t make a life based on a job alone, he needs to love the city as well, find people to build a community with. Good people, his mum told him, are what anyone needs to make a life. He thinks more along the lines of good people, good city, good job as the key ingredients but she’d say that’s the millennial in him talking, like a foreign alien species he can cut out if he needed to.

The teams he has met with at the agency have only made him want the job more; The girl with lavender hair who told him, without malice, she needs someone worthy to butt heads against in creative meetings, and the guy with spiky black hair who knew of his work already, admired some of Zayn’s campaigns in his portfolio. They’re kind, hardworking, and honest. They aren’t Liam or his sisters, not his friends from university or back in Bradford, but he can see a future there, a partnership he wants to be a part of.

As for the city, he’s at a loss. He thinks he could come to love it but not like this--through the lens Harry has shown him, one that only shows the bright and shiny parts. That’s not Zayn, not real to him.

At home he has a pub he likes most and a bakery he goes to on Saturdays. He can walk to work with his eyes closed (it’s an idea he’s never tried in practice only in theory), and there’s always a show to watch or a museum installation to visit. Everything he’s seen here has been the things everyone else already knows about, well-documented and trampled over. He wants to make new steps over something, or at least not take the path everyone does, tourist traps and city parks as seen on television.

“I was thinking we could go to the Statue of Liberty,” Harry says, effectively dragging Zayn out of his reverie as he crumples his empty package of nuts in a ball. “I think they have a ferry that leaves on the hour or something like that.” His voice trails off as if he’s doubting the information he memorized off a tourist website that morning.

“Is there anything else?” Zayn doesn’t snap, not really, but his voice sinks with a sense of heaviness even he can hear.

“Anything else what?”

“To see or do? Surely your life isn’t always private cars and the stuff that’s on the brochure in my hotel, is it?” He tries to soften his tone when he sees Harry’s eyebrows rise slightly.

“I didn’t realize you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

Zayn has to focus on not letting his eyes bug out of his head. He knows he’s not a good actor by any means but it’s terrifying to know Harry has assumed he’s been enjoying himself all this time. As if his one word responses and glazed over eyes equate to anything beyond bearing it.

Harry doesn’t look vulnerable—Zayn isn’t sure vulnerability is even in the Harry Styles bank of expressions--but there’s something confused in his face. Like he’s been playing a game for too long and no one has ever stopped playing right along back.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Zayn says quickly, smoothing the cracks he’s just revealed. “I’ve enjoyed the last couple of days.” He shrugs and his lips tilt in a half smile. “I guess I’m just wondering if there’s more to this city than you’ve shown me. I love a rooftop view as much as the next guy but there’s got to be something missing. I’ve seen the city with a shiny bow and I don’t think that’s what everyday life is like.” Judging by Harry’s day suit and confused expression, it might be exactly what every day of his life is like.

Zayn almost stops it all and takes it back, apologizes and says he’d love nothing more than to see the fucking Statue of Liberty. Harry beats him to it.

“Tonight.” His face smooths out again, “Come with me, okay?”

Zayn hesitates, unsure of what _come with me_ entails but Harry doesn’t seem apt to explain further. Zayn stares at him, so hard one of his eyes twitches. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll go with you.”

Harry nods and licks his lips, relief on his face though Zayn isn’t sure what it’s about. “In the meantime, will you please join me on a trip to the Statue of Liberty?”

Zayn laughs, finally meeting Harry on the semblance of common ground in a joke.

“I’m serious,” Harry says.

Or not.

Zayn stops laughing and clears his throat, “Right, we can do that.”

Harry smirks, “Not really. I just wanted to see if you’d agree.”

Biting his lip to keep from laughing again, Zayn stands up and walks away. “I never want to see you again, Harry Styles.” He makes it twenty paces before Harry catches up to him, matching his stride easily.

“It’s not that easy to get rid of me, Zayn. Trust me you won’t be the first to have tried.” He smiles like it’s a joke but Zayn kind of wonders if there’s something else there. The thought is gone from his mind before he can even give it his full attention because a horse drawn carriage passes right by them, three older women sitting in the back and taking pictures with their phones.

Harry points at it, “Zayn, how about that? Too cliché, or?”

Zayn rolls his eyes this time, the first time he’s let himself do it around Harry. Maybe the first time he’s actually seen some sort of actual humor behind his smile.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Harry raises his eyebrows and starts walking backwards before facing forward again. Zayn thinks he might be fighting a smile.

...

Harry stands off to the side in the lobby of Zayn’s hotel, and he doesn’t seem to notice when Zayn steps off the elevator. He’s studying a painting hanging on the wall, a still life of a pear by the looks of it, made up of different shades of greens. He’s dressed almost normally, a shirt that screams in splashes of orange, blue and green, with tight black jeans and a pair of brown boots. At least it’s not a suit.

As if sensing his judgment, Harry glances over when Zayn gets closer and takes a step back from the painting to say hello. Zayn waits for him to say something pretentious about the painting, something like he has an original Monet or a collection of fruit paintings in his entry way. He’s left surprised when Harry leans forward slightly and almost whispers, “I don’t get this. Like, at all.”

It startles an almost laugh from Zayn. “I’m not the biggest fan myself,” he says.

Harry’s lip twitches like he’s trying to decide what to say. “If I have a pear on my counter, I don’t need a painting of it on the wall, you know? Plus there’s no other fruit pictures in the whole lobby.” He tugs the ends of his hair in a way that doesn’t seem conscious before dropping his hands. “My meeting got done early so I came right here. I’ve circled a couple of times.”

After the park, the car had dropped Zayn back at the Verve office and took Harry to his own office, wherever that was, for afternoon meetings.

In the scheme of the last couple of days, Zayn had forgotten Harry’s whole job is not dedicated only to him and taking him on adventures in the city. He actually has meetings and a desk somewhere, clients who will come after Zayn leaves, people to charm again and again. He wonders if it gets exhausting, pretending life is all diamonds and roses with every person he meets, or maybe that just comes naturally to him.

Zayn feels mildly embarrassed at the thought of Harry waiting downstairs for him while he lazed around on the bed in his hotel room, worked to make sure he was ten minutes late and definitely not on time. If he’d known Harry was early maybe he would have at least been on time. Maybe. He’d make no promises.

“Anyway,” Harry says, probably mistaking Zayn’s quiet for indifference, “The car is outside.”

Zayn squints his eyes at Harry, “You brought the car? I thought you were showing me something real.” His tone is joking, chiding almost.

Harry smirks.

“Tell me, do you actually ever take public transportation or are you scared it will tarnish your silver spoon?” There’s no malice there or at least no intent but Harry snaps. ‘

“Will you shut up? Give me the benefit of doubt for, I don’t know, two minutes?”

It catches Zayn off guard but it barely ticks the scale of the kinds of things he’s had people say to him -- the verbal battles he found himself in too often in school. He blinks with only the ghost of his joke still on his face.

Harry retracts automatically, apologizing as the tips of his ears turn a burning red. “That was out of line,” he says when Zayn tries to wave away his apology with his hand. “I’m not too dense to know that.”

It was bound to happen, is the thing. A _thing_ Zayn is intimately aware of. He’s been pushing Harry’s buttons since they met, or since he first saw there was something he could chip away at. Maybe that’s his flaw, chipping at things until they break, poking at fresh bruises until they become permanent.

“Harry,” he reaches one hand to Harry’s arm, touching the warm skin of his wrist before pulling away, “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

Harry nods but the red won’t fade from his face. “I don’t want you to think I’m some massive, prick. I know what it all looks like. I get it. Just know that I’m not.”

“We’re good, Harry. I was asking for that anyway,” Zayn says, reminded again that Harry is his hired babysitter for all intents and purposes, forced to pretend to like him even as Zayn pushes at him again and again. “You said you were showing me something real tonight, and that was a good start.”

Harry laughs and it still sound kind of hollow but at least his skin returns to its normal color. Zayn holds the door open for him and they walk quietly to the car. He promises he won’t push as much now that he knows Harry will snap, won’t be the guy Harry still remembers even after he has other clients, the one he tells his family about years down the road, _“Nothing was ever as bad as this real asshole, Zayn Malik.”_

_..._

“This corner is good.” Harry points at a gap in the traffic as the car pulls to the side.

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks once they’re standing on the sidewalk and James has already pulled away.

“It’s a couple blocks this way,” Harry says, starting to lead the way. They’re in a part of town that seems smaller and more intimate. The buildings are still as tall but the doors to the restaurants and shops are all open as if inviting people in. The side of the city where Verve is can be daunting, each building seeming like you need a degree and a salary double what Zayn will ever have just to open the front doors.

This feels more like home, or like London at least. The side neighborhoods he’s come to love with cobblestone streets and coffee shops on the corner, pubs tucked between bookstores.

“The place we’re going,” Harry says, as they navigate around a group of men in leather jackets that smell faintly like cigarettes and perfume, “Is one of my favorites in the city.” Perhaps remembering he’s said that about every place he’s taken Zayn so far, he glances over again. ”Seriously.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is or do I have to wait?”

Harry smiles. “There’s this group that does showcases every once in awhile and they’re always in different parts of the city. It’s meant to attract different crowds to the acts but a lot of people go to all of them, wherever they are. That’s actually how I first learned where everything was when I moved here.” He smirks at Zayn, “Not just by leaning out over the edge of the Empire State building.”

Zayn laughs at that, feels something loosen in his chest that reminds him of being with friends again. He hasn’t felt that sense of comfort since leaving Liam at the airport almost four days ago now. “Is it music?”

“Depends,” Harry says, slowing, as they get closer to a bare brick building with lamps hanging around the edges, the green front door propped open by a double-sided chalkboard sign that Zayn can’t quite read. “Sometimes poetry too, there was a comedian at the first one I went to. It was a lot of American humor I couldn’t follow.”

“Or he just wasn’t funny.”

Harry looks at Zayn, “I try to give people a chance at least.”

“Fair enough. Sometimes you have to call a spade a spade though.”

“And sometimes, Zayn Malik, nothing is what it seems.”

Zayn purses his lips, beat. “What are we going to tonight? I’m assuming there’s a performer.”

Harry nods, runs his hand back through his hair. “This is one is rather interesting, actually. It’s college students who found their journals from when they were kids and they read from them.”

It’s hard for Zayn to be excited by the sound of it so he hums instead.

“One of my friends went to the same show last week and she loved it so I was hoping I’d make it for the encore.”

“Lucky you, you had me to drag along, huh?”

“I was planning to go whether or not you were coming,” he says as they pause on the sidewalk out front. “This whole night wasn’t planned with the agency, mind you. Our plan was the suit fitting and the park. Possibly the Statue of Liberty. This is simply a bonus.” He says it over a laugh and Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Alone?” Harry raises an eyebrow, not following. Zayn clarifies. “Would you have come alone to this? You could have invited your friends tonight, I mean. If you already had plans.”

Harry clears his throat, “I didn’t ask anyone else to come with me, no.” Then he pauses, the way Zayn has noticed he does as if he’s trying to pick his next words carefully. “For the past couple of years I’ve been perfecting the art of being okay while being alone. I’m getting quite good at it.”

Zayn feels an absent pang in his chest, something darker between those words that doesn’t reflect in Harry’s face. He let’s it go, doesn’t let himself project things that aren’t even there.

...

Listening to someone read their diary is, to put it mildly, much better than Zayn anticipates. Harry leads the way to a spot near the side where they stand against a pillar and can still see the front. Lines of crates outline the stage in front of what appears to be a cafe during the daytime hours.

Tonight there is wine being served at a counter in the corner and benches in the middle for people to sit and watch, though most choose to stand. If Zayn has to guess, most of the crowd is probably the performers’ friends coming out to support them. He hopes that’s what his friends would do if he decided to read his private writing aloud.

The first girl who gets up is in a light blue dress that flares over her hips, hair combed perfectly straight. Her diary, she says, is from when she was thirteen. By the look of her, Zayn can only imagine what kind of whimsical dreams of marrying pop stars she must have written out, struggles of the middle class for twenty odd pages.

When she starts reading a day-by-day record of visiting her dying father in the hospital, Zayn feels like the biggest asshole in the world even if he’s the only one who knows it. He glances at Harry and sees him struck too, focused on the girl speaking. Zayn hasn’t seen him pay that much attention to something the entire time they’ve been together.

Once the first girl finishes no one claps and Zayn looks around awkwardly. “Etiquette,” Harry whispers, “No idea why.”

The next guy who gets up, with a black jacket and side swept hair, reads his journal from when he was sixteen and acknowledging for the first time he might be gay; Pages upon pages detailing his internal struggles and exterior lies. Zayn gets chills on the back of his neck more than once.

Then there’s another guy who reads his, rather boring, fictional stories and a girl who only has observations from the lunchroom in her middle school. And on it goes.

By the time the whole thing is over, Zayn feels weirdly sandwiched between stripped raw at the intimate details of strangers and mildly hopeful though he can’t be sure the two are connected. Everyone is quiet as they exit the small cafe; noises picking up again once they’re outside. Zayn follows Harry’s paint splatter shirt through the crowd and to the edge of the sidewalk and then across the street.

“That was incredible,” he says, giving Harry the credit he deserves for bringing him.

“I love that stuff,” Harry says.  “Art and performance that makes you feel something.” He shakes his head, almost breathless. “There are so many things in life where I find myself completely passive and then you find something that actually cuts you open for once.”

It may just be the first genuine thing he has offered about himself since Zayn has met him.

“Difference between a still life pear and a childhood journal, yeah?”

 

Harry looks at Zayn, walks backward a few steps to smile at him, before meeting pace by his side. “Exactly that.”

They walk on a while longer, Zayn in awe of how Harry knows his way around the city without instructions, navigating the crowded streets with confidence. He points out the different neighborhoods as they pass by and murmurs their names, Tribeca and Little Italy; he gestures towards places he’s been and ones he wants to try. There are no landmarks here only the places Harry knows.

Zayn recognizes Harry’s familiarity with this part of the city as the way he feels at home. He still questions the direction he’s going in the big parts of London but he’s learned the plot of the city where he lives by heart. He’s like that when it comes to a lot of things. He takes in the small picture, wraps a ribbon around it and holds it close, forgets to open his eyes wider for context.

“This next place might be a bit cliché,” Harry says smiling as they turn off a side street and onto a more thorough fair, “But I’ve actually never been, so.” He shrugs like it’s an explanation but maybe he’s just afraid Zayn will lash out and call him a walking cliché again.

“The night is yours.” Zayn hopes he is being reassuring. “Wherever you take me, I’ll go.”

Where they end up is a restaurant painted black with a line more than circling the block outside. Harry surpasses the entire line and whispers something to the hostess that has her motioning Zayn and Harry past the line and deeper into the restaurant. With one more glance at the daunting line outside, Zayn gives Harry a pass this time. He honestly wasn’t looking forward to waiting among the masses.

Harry glances at him over his shoulder, “I know what you’re thinking. Just enjoy the job perks this time. I promise you, if you take the job, you can come back and wait in the two-hour line, okay? I won’t come with you but if you want the experience, feel free.”

Zayn laughs and Harry smiles, one that reaches his eyes and makes his face seem younger, as they slide into a booth.

“So, what’s the big deal here?” Zayn glances at the menu and the endless lists of burgers on the first page.

“The magic,” Harry says, slowly, “According to The New York Times and every food blog in the city is--” He pauses and flips Zayn’s menu to the back, “These milkshakes.”

“A milkshake?” Zayn is completely taken aback by the fan fare around a sugar-filled dairy product.

Harry frowns and takes the menu back, “Do not judge.”

“I’m not judging,” Zayn says, smiling despite himself. “I’m just wondering how long people have traveled and waited for what, essentially, is available at every diner ever.”

“That sounds mighty judge-y, Zayn Malik.” Harry pulls the menus closer to his chest without letting Zayn look. “For that, I’m going to decide what we’re having.”

Then, like the kind of person Zayn is learning he is, Harry gets out of the booth and walks over to where a waiter is standing at a service station. From the looks of it, Harry places their order standing in the middle of the restaurant, pointing out the things he wants on the menu. Based on Zayn’s one summer as a waiter in Bradford, he knows that is just the type of thing to piss wait staff off enough to sneeze in your food.

Except Harry is smiling and flipping his hair around while he talks, leaning in closer to the waiter and keeping consistent eye contact. It’s almost like watching an actor in person, in a theater perhaps. All night Harry has been much less than the actor Zayn has pegged him for the first two days. He’s slowly moved closer to the realm of acting like a normal person in Zayn’s eyes. Now, seeing him in action again, pulling at his bottom lip while the waiter talks to him, Zayn realizes how good he is at switching between the two personas. Like, an on and off switch to get what he wants.

Harry comes back a moment later with a pleased smile, sliding back into the booth and daring Zayn to say something about it. Zayn doesn’t take the bait.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been here,” Zayn says instead. “It seems like a cultural phenomenon somewhere on the list between the Empire State Building and Central Park.”

Harry smirks, taps his fingers against their table. “I put a lot of thought into what I do,” he says. “And Black Tap just hasn’t been a part of anyone’s puzzle yet.”

Zayn tilts his head. “That’s your thing, is it? Everyone is a puzzle you try to figure out by taking them to tourist traps.”

Harry’s mouth twitches, like he’s going to smile but he doesn’t. “Something like that. Some are easier to solve than others.”

It begs the question before Zayn asks, “And you thought I seemed like a guy to be impressed by nice buildings and pretty views?” It’s the first time he’s acknowledged out loud what this is, what their relationship is all about.

Harry shakes his head, “I don’t share my secrets.”

“I changed the game though, didn’t I?” Zayn leans forward, feels like he’s taking Harry Styles apart, looking at his brain. Trying, at least. “I’m not what you expected. You didn’t have to take anyone to fancy milkshakes until me, right? Game changer.” The atmosphere, the night, has made Zayn bold, like he can push a little without getting himself sent home early.

Harry laughs over his words. “I told you, tonight isn’t work for me.” His tongue darts out over his bottom lip, “This is me proving to you that I’m not who you think I am.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows, waiting for more on who Zayn thinks he is, but Harry just raises his eyebrows right back. Case closed. For now.

The milkshakes arrive and Zayn feels like he will need to start every recounted story about this night with the fact the things on their tables are not milkshakes at all.

“I got two,” Harry explains as Zayn’s eyes go wide when the waiter sets them down.

Essentially the glass is filled with a milkshake but the edges of the glass are overcrowded with actual food. One has at least six cookies attached to the rim by melted chocolate with chocolate syrup over the top and whip cream dripping over the sides. A chunk of fluffy white cake with rainbow sprinkles and a cloud of frosting covers the top of the other one.  
Harry takes his phone out, already arranging the milkshake for a picture. “This is ridiculous,” he says, some of the childlike excitement of his face reaching his voice. Zayn can’t help but completely agree.

“I see what the line is for, I think,” Zayn says. He doesn’t post pictures of food on social media, not like Harry who is already picking a filter for his Instagram by the looks of it, but he still takes out his phone and snaps a picture or two. He sends the shots to his sisters before setting his phone down. He picks it back up and sends them to Liam too and then some of his cousins just because.

Eating the milkshakes proves to be a mess, bits of cake and cookies falling on the table and the napkins causing more hurt than good by spreading melted ice cream into the wood of the table. They’re technically too sweet--Zayn feels full after only the first couple of bites--but it’s fun nonetheless. Taking them apart, and then watching Harry try to figure out how to reconstruct them.

“If I figure it out, I’ll quit my job and become a chef,” he says just as three cookies slip off the glass and crumble in a pile.

“Best of luck,” Zayn says, grabbing one and taking a bite of it just so Harry can roll his eyes. Feeling like he owes Harry some positivity, he mentions again how much he enjoyed the show from earlier, listening to people share their secrets like that.

“Better than I thought it’d be,” Harry says, the earlier enthusiasm from the street seeping back into his voice. “And just interesting, you know? To acknowledge your youth and then see where you end up.”

Zayn nods, chewing absently on the end of his straw. “Did you ever have a diary?”

“As a kid?” Harry shakes his head, “I did when I started college here, though. A leather journal that started falling apart because I took it everywhere.” The corner of his mouth quirks up into half of a smile at a memory.

“You were what, eighteen then?”

He nods, bites on his lip. “I was. Did you ever have one? A journal?”

Zayn takes the subject change for the moment. “No. I always thought no one would care what I had to say, and then I couldn’t think of what to write. Creative pressure,” he says on a laugh. “Did you stop writing in yours then?”

He studies Harry’s eyebrows when they pull together, “I did, yeah. A couple of years ago, once I’d graduated school.”

“Why?”

Harry swallows and for the first time Zayn thinks he’s made him uncomfortable. “Ran out of things to write I guess.” Then, as a throwaway comment, “Didn’t want to remember the things I would have written.”

That begs for Zayn to pull at, poke until something spills but he bites his tongue because Harry shrugs over it, and fishes his wallet out of his pocket. He takes out a wad of cash and sets it on the table, waves Zayn away when he reaches for his own wallet.

“My night,” he says like he didn’t just say something wholly mysterious a moment before. “Ready?”

Zayn nods dumbly, follows him back out of the restaurant, the line outside not appearing to have moved. He doesn’t ask Harry about the journal again as he catches up to walk at his side, doesn’t ask him what kinds of things he doesn’t want to remember. After all, not having to talk about them is perhaps the exact point.

“We have to go in here,” Harry says a few blocks down, ducking into a record store.

“We do?” Zayn asks even as he trails after him inside.

“Yes,” Harry says, self-assured and waving towards the older man behind the counter. “This is a hidden gem.”

Zayn follows him through the lines of records, admires the pink light filtering from the ceiling and casting a dream like glow around the store. “It looks like a record store,” Zayn says, never completely immune from teasing Harry.

“In the eighties this was the ultimate place for artists to buy their own records,” Harry says, stopping in front of a wall with framed photos, some faded with the stark marks of black marker signatures over top. “When they came to New York, it was a big deal for them to come here and get the copy of whatever they had released most recently.”

Zayn steps closer and recognizes the sweet smile of James Taylor and grumpier scowls from Axl Rose and Stevie Nicks under where Harry’s hand has stopped.

“It got to be a big deal and artists would perform impromptu sets for whoever happened to be here at that time,” Harry says. “Imagine being here when Stevie and Fleetwood Mac walked in.”

“Who started it?” Zayn asks, looking back out around the store. It seems rather ordinary not unlike record stores at home.

Harry smiles, “Mick Jagger. One of his friends is the original owner so the Stones came and got their records here. He’s an obvious icon and everyone else followed suit.”

Zayn studies an image of The Rolling Stones, taken later in their careers by the lines of wrinkles across their skin, and he laughs a little. “Has anyone ever told you, you look a bit like Jagger?”

Harry rolls his eyes and steps away from the wall, “I’ve been called Baby Mick a time or two, yes.”

“It’s the mouth, mate.” Zayn glances between them again, “Like always pouty or something.” He squints at Harry’s face.

“Anyway,” Harry says loudly heading back into the main part of the store, “I have an old record player and I always buy my records here, or try to at least. I like the history, like to feel like I’m walking on some sort of hallowed ground or something.”

“Ghosts of rock and roll past,” Zayn agrees, more drawn in by how long the record store has had to be standing to gather this kind of history.

Harry calls James and tells him where they are while they browse around. Zayn catches Harry nearing the Fleetwood Mac albums, tracing his finger absently over Stevie Nicks’ face and somehow it only stands to make him more human, the clear infatuation and adoration there.

He tries to imagine a younger version of Harry stopping here when he first got to college. He had to have been scared to be so far from home but then again, Zayn isn’t sure he can picture Harry as anything other than who he is now.

...

“So,” Harry says once they’re in the car, “One of the best things I’ve learned about this place, is if you drive in forty minutes in any direction you’ll be out of the city.” He laughs over himself, “That might not be true, actually. But if you drive forty minutes in this direction, then it’s true.”

That’s exactly what they do with the help of James at the steering wheel, of course.

Harry asks about Zayn’s family as if he knows that will be what gets him to talk the most and it works. Zayn tells him about his sisters, all three of them, his mum and dad and growing up in a house where he was never alone. Harry asks questions about them like he’s actually interested, instead of humming over bits and pieces. Before Zayn can return the line of questioning, try to pull out something about Harry, Harry sets him off to talk about university and then Liam, perhaps because he’s picked up on the name in nearly every other story Zayn tells.

Zayn watches the city fade out the window while they talk and the car slices through the darkness with street lamps dotting the way rather than buildings. Harry seems comfortable, leaning back in his seat and not relying on either of his two phones while Zayn talks. It seems to be his comfort zone, to listen to someone talk and not have to put in his own stories or asides.

The car pulls to a stop on a gravel path and James turns around, “This okay, H?”

“Perfect,” Harry says, flashing a smile and opening the side door. “We shouldn’t be too long.”

Zayn follows after him, thanking James before he gets out.

“He’s just going to wait there?” He asks while trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It’s not completely dark, the stars are out above them and there are a few lights from houses scattered around. He walks around the car to where Harry is and sees the gravel path opens up to a bridge a few hundred feet away, a quiet river below. His stomach flutters.

“James?” Harry laughs, “He has an audio book he likes to listen to whenever I do this. He’s been very into Brad Taylor lately.”

Zayn doesn’t know who that is. “Does he drive you always? Like day to day?”

Harry shakes his head, starts walking towards the bridge just as Zayn feared he would. “No just for work events. And tonight because, though it’s not work technically, I wouldn’t be able to show you everything, especially this, if we took the subway.”

“So you do take public transportation, then?”

He can see Harry’s lips twitch even in the shadows. “My secret is out.”

Zayn can’t believe it fully, not until he actually sees Harry Styles underground, in some sort of fancy suit, gripping the pole of a subway car. He’s not sure he’ll know him long enough to see something like that.

“And you come here alone? Is that what you meant when you said James listens to audiobooks when you do this?” Zayn walks slower as they approach the edge of the bridge, hoping to stall before Harry starts to do another thing he’s very worried he might be thinking of.

“I almost always come alone,” Harry says before swinging under a safety bar, doing exactly the thing Zayn had just so hoped he wouldn’t. “So, by all means feel honored and esteemed you’ve been invited.”

“Oh, I do.” Zayn tries to keep his voice from shaking as he watches Harry sit, feet dangling over the edge of the bridge, a flimsy arch of metal under his toes.

“You coming?”

Zayn isn’t sure if there’s a choice and if there is, if he should really say no. He’s giving Harry a chance after all. With shaky hands he swings under the bar and sits down next to Harry, fingers grasping the cement under them. His knuckles are white with the strain of his grip already.

“Sorry, are you afraid of heights?” Harry smiles, looking over. “Maybe I should have asked.”

“Heights, possibly,” Zayn says, “Freefalling from a bridge, definite yes.”

“Well you won’t,” Harry says. “Fall, that is.” There’s something confident in his voice as if he knows though Zayn knows for a fact he cannot guarantee that.

“I come here because it reminds me of home,” Harry says. He looks out over the water with his hands in his lap. “In Cheshire, there are a lot of fancy houses and shiny cars and then there are places that are wide open and untouched where you can forget all that. This is kind of that same feeling.”

Holding his breath, Zayn looks out over the water to the rolling hills and trees in the distance, the smaller houses every once in awhile. It’s a literal breath of fresh air after being in the city and he tells Harry as much.

Harry nods. “I love the city, don’t get me wrong but it can suffocate you, I think. You forget there’s a world outside, to quote Alicia Keys, the concrete jungle.”

That startles a laugh from Zayn as Harry’s offbeat humor tends to do. “How’d you find this in the first place?”

Harry is quiet and Zayn thinks he’s not going to tell him. “One day I wanted to get lost and this is kind of where it led me.”

Zayn snorts. “You don’t seem like a guy capable of getting lost, your fancy suits prohibit camouflage.”

“I’m getting better at it,” he says. “I’ve also found it’s easy for anyone to get lost when everyone else stops looking.”

Zayn doesn’t know what that means so he stays quiet and settles to enjoy the quiet of the countryside instead. He knows this is limited time before they’re back in the city and it’s never silent again. Or at least not like this.

The drive back to the hotel is quiet, Zayn dozes in and out of sleep; his head knocking against the window every once in awhile jolts him awake. He notices that Harry, with his hands clasped in his lap, stares out his own window the whole time.

He wonders if Harry is lonelier than he let’s on, if that’s what his comments have gotten at all night. That he’s not the slick and charming recruiter Zayn has met the first couple of days; in fact, he might be someone else entirely.

Zayn gets out of the car with a quiet goodnight to both Harry and James, his mind already upstairs and in his bed. The daunting set of stairs leading up to the lobby even seems like too much in that moment.

“Hooters.”

Zayn pauses and turns towards the sound of what is distinctly Harry’s low drawl. The back window of the car is rolled down and Harry is leaning out it, eyes trained on Zayn.

“Excuse me?”

“The first place I went when I got here – Hooters. There’s one right by the airport. My friends had told me about it and I had the cab take me straight there. Not the Empire State building.”

Zayn smirks because he can’t help himself. He hasn’t met anyone like Harry Styles before. Harry sits back in his seat and starts to roll the window up but Zayn interrupts him.

“What’d you get?”

Harry leans forward again, eyebrows stitched together.

Zayn smirks. “At Hooters, what’d you order?”

“Wings. Of course.”

Zayn nods and raises his hand as Harry finishes rolling up the window. He stands there as the car pulls away and wonders if Harry is still watching him too.

...

Zayn spends the day leading up to his first gala at the Verve offices in a room lovingly referred to as the war room.

“We want you to lead a session,” Max says when arrives in the morning, leading him toward one of the boardrooms. “It’s not a test, I promise. It’s just a chance to get you in there, actually directing a concept, pulling ideas together.”

Zayn nods along, any pretense of worrying about the upcoming gala, redirected to worrying about being in front of his potential new staff.

That’s where it stays most of the day as well, as he musses up his own hair and wrinkles his suit while engaging with the teams ushered in and out of the rooms, the concept ideas rolling in front of him. Over lunch, of a turkey and avocado sandwich, he has a conference call with one of the directors of the international agencies who speaks barely any English at all and then another round of mood boards and color pallets.

He’s floating by the time he makes it back to his hotel and then jolts towards reality when the front desk offers him a zipped up garment bag which he can only assume is his suit for the preview gala.

In his hotel room he unzips the garment bag to reveal the simple black jacket and white shirt he’d chosen with Robyn. She’d told him if he took the job she’d make him choose more adventurous styles but not for his first time. He’s thankful for it as he takes a shower and gets dressed, butterflies dancing around his belly.

He can’t help it when he checks himself out in the mirror on the back of his door twice. He looks good with his hair pushed off his face and styled the way he usually does for dates. The suit fits him perfectly, which is the purpose of having a fitting in the first place, he reminds himself. He takes a picture of his reflection and sends it to his mum though it’s the middle of the night there. It will give her something for the morning and then, if everything goes wrong tonight, he’ll at least have a text from her to tell him how wonderful he is. It’s one of the many things he’s always counted on from his mum, that unconditional love and support.

 

Zayn puts his phone in his pocket and feels the scratch of paper against his fingers. He pulls it out and reads, _you look fantastic, love. XO, R_ , before he tosses it on his dresser with a smile.

...

Zayn doesn’t recognize the driver when he picks him up and there are not as many kind smiles as the driver he’s been borrowing, Tom, or Harry’s usual driver, James. Not that he should worry because privately chauffeured cars are probably not going to be normal to him once he takes the job. The thought makes him pause -- the first acknowledgement of the after, of taking the job.

For weeks it’s been impossible to imagine, the trip to New York has always been the foreseeable end. He couldn’t think of anything past that, whether back in London or here. Suddenly, sitting in the car and pulling up along a sidewalk jammed with people in suits and dresses, he can see it all in front of him and it doesn’t scare him. In fact, when he gets out of the car to be met by a blonde lady and a clipboard asking for his name in a sharp American accent, he actually feels quite a bit lighter.

Simply saying his name gets him taken to where Harry is standing, pulled across the gaggle of people and through wave after wave of perfume. Harry is talking to a guy with dark hair, around his height, both seeming serious as they compare something on their phones.

Harry puts his phone away, smiling at Zayn right away when he sees him. If Zayn had taken the time to worry and wonder about if things would be different after the night before, nothing is. Harry is still dressed in his ridiculous suit of shades of pink flowers with his hair pushed back artfully, tucked behind one ear. His lips match the shade of the suit, the deeper rose of one of the flowers which means the first thing Zayn says to him after their night together is, “Are you wearing lipstick?”

The guy next to him starts laughing, his head tipping back on his neck. “I told you, dude.” He laughs over his own words, his voice relaxed and American as Harry rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand, turning away slightly.

“It’s gloss,” he says to Zayn, muffled by his hand.

His friend laughs again, coughing into his fist when Harry levels a glare at him. “Go away. Don’t you have people to organize or something?”

He rolls his eyes and salutes to Harry before wandering away, still smiling when he glances back at Harry’s mouth. “That’s my friend, Jeff.” He rubs at his lips again, “He runs the Los Angeles office of recruiters. One of my best mates but not for all the shit he gives me.” His lips have turned even redder from his rubbing at them but when he asks Zayn for feedback he goes with a thumbs up.

They head towards the stone steps leading up to the building, Harry maneuvering around people easily with Zayn on his heels. Zayn gapes when the flash of multiple camera lights up the night and his eyes fall on a red carpet. There is someone distinctly familiar posing for photos against a backdrop of greenery. She looks like a pop star, perhaps a model -- one of those things, Zayn decides.

“Red carpet,” Harry points out obviously, “Not for us.”

Zayn laughs and rolls his eyes. “And here I was getting ready to walk it.”

They swerve around the carpet but even so, he notices a few of the cameras turn to take pictures of Harry. The bulbs flash in Zayn’s face, Harry doesn’t seem to notice.

“This is a gallery,” Zayn says as they walk through the arching front door and he takes in the space.

Harry glances at him, smirking. “Wow I see why everyone is so impressed with you now.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you never mentioned it.” He pauses, “Are people actually impressed by me or was that sarcastic?”

They follow a crowd towards a center ballroom, high arching ceilings and chandeliers filling the space.

“You caught that, eh?” Harry slides his hands in his pockets as they walk. “I got a call today from my inside source who says you were quote, unquote ‘really incredible’ during a pitch meeting.”

“You have inside sources?” Zayn’s eyebrows pull together, trying to decipher how Harry is running his recruiting like a CIA operation.

“I have friends, Zayn.” He says it like he’s annoyed but Zayn doesn’t think he actually is, this time. At least, not severely. “Friends who want to make sure I don’t fuck anything up and make you walk at the last second.”

They shuffle around a group in all black, women with their hair up in elaborate designs and men with dark-rimmed glasses and champagne. Harry plucks two glasses of champagne off of a nearby tray and hands one to Zayn as they walk.

“I thought you were the one sealing the deal. Executive recruiter and all that.” The champagne is light on Zayn’s tongue.

“If everyone took a job because of me, they’d be disappointed come their first day when I’m not even there,” Harry says, smiling almost. “They have to want more than the pretty face holding their hand and dragging them around the city and to their meetings.”

Zayn scoffs, “I can’t believe you just called yourself pretty.”

Harry’s cheeks turn pink but he doesn’t deny it. He parts his lips like he’s going to say something else, but then, looking beyond Zayn’s head, he licks his lip and juts his chin to the side once. “I think Max is looking for you.”

Zayn follows Harry’s gaze across the room to where Max is staring back at him. Zayn’s new boss, if everything works out, as it should, waves him across the room towards a group of people he’s standing with.

“I guess that means I should go over there, huh?” Zayn has put on a brave face for the past couple of days but he really is not a naturally social butterfly. He doesn’t revel in meeting new people and trying to impress them, hoping they’ll like him. Harry doesn’t seem to catch on to his anxiety, nor does he probably have that same problem.

“Exactly. And I’ll be wandering around,” he flicks his hand around, “Somewhere.”

Zayn wants to tell him that he needs an exact location that he gets nervous when he doesn’t have a base to come back to in a crowded room but Harry is already walking away, straightening his suit jacket and Zayn is suddenly very alone.

It’s not like Harry is obligated to hold his hand here, too. In fact, pretty soon he may never see Harry Styles again. That sends a jolt through Zayn as he heads towards Max and the group of people. He’ll need to start making new friends especially if he won’t be able to count on Harry as one after he signs the contract.

Max welcomes him easily, introducing him around the circle to creative directors and designers, a couple of models stuck in between. They all seem to know who he is, nodding appreciatively and telling him they’re glad he’s giving Verve a chance. A couple women are from a competing agency but they are just as warm as the others, shaking his hand firmly and smiling at him.

The installation for Gucci’s new campaign is in the middle of the room, a live action view of the city playing on screens and models underneath in the new line with the city superimposed over them. It’s hard to tell what exactly is happening but Zayn sees a lot of lights and high cheekbones.

The group he’s with talks about different campaigns and Zayn adds in his two cents for the ones he’s seen and listens closely to the discussion of the one’s he hasn’t. He feels like he has to be engaged, lest a stray comment fly by he doesn’t catch quick enough to respond. They’re quick and witty, smart as hell, all of them. Zayn wants to be them and be better than them all at once.

His eyes drift around the room when the conversation moves towards unfamiliar waters of who knows whom within the different agencies. Zayn knows only enough people to count on two hands so he can’t participate much.

His wandering eyes eventually fall on Harry. Zayn tells himself it’s the fancy suit and not the natural direction of his gaze. Everyone seems to know Harry as he gets pulled into groups with open arms and big hugs, people kissing his cheeks like they haven’t seen him in ages. Maybe they haven’t, Zayn notes. He has no idea how often galas take place and how many Harry comes to. Enough, it would seem, for people to know him and want to talk with him. The last few days have made Zayn feel like they’re friends, him and Harry, or something like that, when in reality it’s only a business relationship. He imagines Harry has this effect on a lot of people.

Zayn watches carefully as a guy sweeps in suddenly towards Harry, pressing in close, his mouth against his hair and then his ear. Zayn looks back towards the group he’s talking with, trying to zone in as they discuss someone who evidently retired last year. Zayn’s attention slips again. Naturally, it falls back on Harry.

There’s something in Harry’s face that sets Zayn off kilter. His expression is almost pained as he leans his head away from the guy talking to him. The guy is in a navy suit and easily as tall as Harry. He’s clearly drunk, falling against Harry even while he tries to hold himself up. It’s unsettling to watch and Zayn nearly goes over to them himself. Not that he knows what he would do next.

Before he can make any moves, Jeff, Harry’s friend from outside, comes up and grabs the guy in the navy suit, somehow friendly as he abruptly pulls him away. They all laugh but Zayn notices how Harry moves towards Jeff and widens the gap between him and the guy in the suit even as they all stand together talking.

Zayn is glaringly reminded how alone he is—how the closest thing to a friend he’s met here, he barely even knows. He only knows the parts of Harry he shows to clients; he has a whole other world Zayn is not involved in, a world he never will be.

Feeling slightly queasy, Zayn excuses himself to the restroom. He swallows the rest of his champagne and deposits the glass on an empty table before going back into the main hallway.

Most of the exhibits are closed, the hallways dark, as Zayn finds his way to the bathroom. He would love to escape and look at the art, clear his head for a moment, but getting arrested on one of his last nights in the city doesn’t seem like a good idea.

His cheeks are flushed in the mirror over the sink so he runs cold water over the insides of his wrists and then dries his hands slowly. He’s not one to panic but the idea of actually having to make a decision about the job is suddenly poking at him. He wants it, he knows he wants it, he’s just suddenly doubting whether he should trust his gut.

What he needs is to call his mum and have her tell him everything okay and then give the phone to his dad who might be able to give him a little more constructive help. He needs to call Liam while he’s at it because he’ll at least support whatever way Zayn is leaning at the time. Gripping the edge of the sink, he decides that is what he’ll do in the morning. He’ll call in his reinforcements.

It’s quiet as he makes his way back to the ballroom but movement down one of the shadowed and blocked off hallways makes him stop. More, its the suit makes him stop. Harry is just beyond a barrier, sitting on the viewing bench in front of one of the art pieces, his head in his hands. Zayn doesn’t want to disturb him especially after all the time he’s spent convincing himself they aren’t even truly friends.

Still, he’s not a stranger and even that seems enough to make Zayn care. He takes a step closer and clears his throat; it comes out slightly strangled and doesn’t reach Harry.

Biting his lip, Zayn slips under the barrier to the exhibit and knocks on the edge of the wall as if he were to knock on a door and not the wall of an art gallery. He can’t see what art is hanging on the walls, the light only shining on the center row of viewing benches.

The sound makes Harry look over and then he’s standing up suddenly, clearing his throat.

“Hey, Zayn.” His smile is forced and his voice is too loud as he runs his fingers back through his hair. “How’s it going?” He straightens his suit jacket as he gets closer, a startled look in his eyes.

“Fine, yeah. I was in the bathroom and then noticed you over here.” He doesn’t say it looked like Harry was having a breakdown in an abandoned hallway. “Figured you were down here looking at art in the dark or something equally strange.”

That, at least, makes Harry laugh. “I think it gives a more abstract feel to the work. Like, you can see the true meaning,” he says.

“Of course.” Zayn squints at the art Harry was facing, a girl in a white dress in a field. Harry is always so full of it. “And this one means what exactly?’

Harry purses his lips, “I was in the middle of deciding that when you showed up.” He shrugs and takes a step back towards the hallway with the barrier, “Guess we’ll never know.”

“I love galleries,” Zayn says, apropos nothing. “It seems silly to be in a gallery and stuffed inside a ballroom when all this is out here.” He motions around the dark hallway.

Harry snorts, “Silly, yeah.” He ducks under the barrier and Zayn follows, their adventure over.

A few steps from the door, Harry pauses. “I’m not entirely interested in going back in there yet.” He points inside at the people chatting and laughing, champagne floating around on trays, everything as they left it a moment ago.

Zayn smirks, “I could survive with not going, yeah.”

Harry swallows, “Would you want to go somewhere with me instead?”

This must be their thing, going places off the map, unplanned. “Sure, I guess.”

 

Harry nods and glances over his shoulder before darting down a hallway across the lobby. Zayn follows quickly.

“I’m not taking you on a gallery tour, so don’t be too excited.” Harry’s voice is quiet like they’re going to be caught at any moment.

Zayn nods as they approach an elevator.

“This place is famous for the rooftop garden,” Harry says, pressing the call button. “Besides the art and spectacular chandeliers, obviously.”

“Of course,” Zayn says, laughing. He points at a sign hanging next to the elevator, “Do you mean the rooftop closed for evening events?”

Harry presses the call button again and looks over at Zayn. He sighs and pulls the sign from the wall, leaving tiny bits of paper fragmented by staples as the only trace it was ever there.

“Possibly,” he says, folding the sign and putting it in the jacket of his pocket. “No one told me it’s closed though.”

Zayn plays along, Harry makes it hard to not. “I don’t see anything prohibiting it.”

Harry winks at him, the elevator doors slide open and they step inside.

“Rooftop please,” Harry commands. He leans back against the bar around the middle of the elevator and crosses his legs at his ankles. Zayn presses the button, waits for it to glow green before he lets go and takes his place next to Harry, crossing his ankles just the same.

The late April air is warm once they step out of the elevator at the top but not sticky in the way Zayn has heard about New York. The garden is in full bloom; each planter is overflowing with color and plants arch out over the walls to give the illusion of being hidden especially in the dark.

Zayn is busy taking it all in, pressing his fingers against the petals of one of the roses that he doesn’t notice Harry moving around until he hears a grunt from one of the darker corners. Before he can track the noise, strands of lanterns light up around the stone edge, strung from wire in all different colors. It could be the scene in a wedding or just the very exquisite rooftop of an art gallery.

Harry stands up in the corner where the noise originated, rubbing the back of his head. Zayn raises one eyebrow in question.

“Plugged in the lights,” he says, “Managed to knock my head on the wall too.”

Zayn grimaces in sympathy, sliding his hands in his pockets and walking towards the edge of the building. “Have you ever been up here?”

Harry has his hands clasped behind his back but he’s not moving any closer, eyes tracing over the potted plants nearest him. “There was an exhibit a couple of months ago and the opening was a rooftop garden party,” he says.

“Oh, how fancy.” Zayn rolls his eyes, smirking a bit. He’s still not used to Harry dropping his influence, whether by association or names.

“Not really,” Harry says, surprising him. “There were too many people and a bit too much talk about whose gardeners were planting what in their yards.”

Zayn snorts, “You didn’t have anything to add? No hydrangeas in the penthouse this year?” His tone is teasing, and Harry smirks so Zayn knows he gets it.

“I prefer to do it myself, actually.”

He laughs at the image of Harry on his hands and knees in the dirt, let alone his hands curling in soil, bits of it stuck under his nails. He can’t picture Harry anywhere near a garden and standing there, he realizes he can’t picture Harry anywhere remotely normal -- his floral suit in a grocery store makes Zayn laugh again, though Harry stares at him without understanding why.

“Sorry,” Zayn says. He realizes he’s balancing on the line of being rude again. He finds it hard to avoid when Harry gives him so much material, so readily.

Harry smiles and walks towards the edge next to Zayn. “I know you think you have an idea of who I am,” he says, “And I want you to know your wrong.”

“Aren’t you the mysterious one?”

Harry’s lips twitch but he doesn’t smile. He stays quiet for a moment instead. “You might take the cake on that one. For the first time, I have no idea if you’re going to take the job tomorrow or walk. I usually know right away.”

It sounds like a compliment though Zayn knows Harry is the kind of person who expects to get what he wants. So it may be less than kind.

“That’s right,” Zayn says, as if he’s forgotten, “I have a decision to make, don’t I?”

Harry runs his hand along his jaw without looking at Zayn. “How is that decision going?”

It’s a leading question and Zayn laughs again. “Is this the part where we have a heart to heart and you tell me you can imagine me in a penthouse in a fancy suit, surrounded by models with money raining over my head?”

Harry’s eyes go wide and he actually laughs. “Well, now I am.” He closes his eyes and hums, “It’s a good visual.”

Zayn wants to bump his shoulder but afraid of crossing any boundaries, settles for sighing out loud instead.

Harry smiles, barely fazed. “I’m not going to sell you the job, Zayn.”

“And here that’s what I thought you were doing all week.”

“You’re going to make the decision you want to make, whether or not I or anyone else tries to influence you.”

“Okay, Yoda.”

Harry grimaces, “I don’t do Star Wars.”

“We’ll never be friends,” Zayn says before he realizes they already aren’t going to be.

“Good. All of my friends wear floral suits on Thursdays and it’s just not a becoming pattern on you.” Harry laughs over his words and Zayn has a feeling he would be awful as a truly sinister or mean person, trying to deliver lines fit for films and failing miserably.

They stay on the roof for a while longer, talking about odds and ends but nothing serious like what happens if Zayn says yes to the job, what would happen if he says no. They don’t talk about anything personal, their families, growing up, views on politics or romance—just the surface conversations about the best burgers in the city, where good happy hours are, how cold it gets in the winter.

Zayn isn’t sure if Harry knows that’s what he needs -- to talk about anything besides the decision in front of him--or if it’s all part of his shtick that is well rehearsed and thought out or if, instead, he really doesn’t mind the mindless chatter at all.

Once they get off the elevator back in the lobby, Zayn thinks it may be the latter for the way Harry smiles at him and says, “I haven’t done that in ages.”

“Done what?”

“Actually had fun at one of these.”

The way he says it, the half smile as he thinks about it, makes him seem older though Zayn can’t place why. Could it be the last time he had fun at a gala was so long ago, he can barely remember it – Zayn may never know as they sweep back into the main ballroom, resume their small talk amongst industry professionals, separately.

As Zayn drinks another glass of champagne and talks with a woman who started out at Verve, he notices Harry laughing along with a different group, buoyant and so unlike the guy sitting alone in the dark hallway of the gallery a short time ago. Zayn can’t help but wonder if any of the last half hour -- the rooftop garden -- happened at all.

The party settles around midnight and Zayn finds himself walking back out with Harry, Zayn having already arranged his driver down on the street. Harry must be heading for James.

“What’s the agenda for tomorrow?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking up at Harry on the stair above him.

“Nothing from me until tomorrow night,” Harry says. “I’ll be in my office instead of being your tour guide.” He smiles and not for the first time, Zayn wonders if Harry can see inside his head, listen to his thoughts like a track on an old record. “I think the technical term is Thinking Day,” he says. “For you, I mean. Soul searching and deciding what to do about your life.”

“No big deal then, eh?”

Harry’s lips twitch into a smirk, “One of the easier days, I’d say.”

“You got any advice for me?”

Harry has started to walk away, diagonally across from Zayn. He stops. “On what?”

“The soul searching, deciding what to do with my life thing?”

Harry’s hand drags back through his hair before falling at his side unceremoniously. “You can picture yourself in a penthouse with models and money raining down on you,” he says, slowly, as per usual. There’s a smile in his words, letting Zayn in on his joke before it disappears. “Or, you can think about eight months from now, December, when it’s snowing outside. A Sunday morning, waking up in your bed under the warm blankets and the day open ahead of you.” He pauses and then, “Where are you?”

Zayn’s mind snaps as he realizes what he was picturing as Harry spoke.

He smiles like he knows, “That’s your answer.” He turns away and keeps walking and Zayn stares after him, after Harry Styles and his black magic of recruiting. Maybe he uses that line on everyone, maybe that’s his token sign off.

It doesn’t change that when Zayn was imagining it, picturing that Sunday morning under blankets with snow falling outside of his window, he wasn’t thinking about London.

...

The next morning, Zayn’s second to last in New York, sunlight casts a cool shadow over the bed when he wakes up. He forgot to close the curtains the night before, fell asleep staring out over the city and he does it again now, much different in the daylight. He’s getting a feel for the New Yorker thing, the obsession with tall buildings and the view.

He lies right there in bed as he does exactly what he said he would do the night before, what he always does when he needs to get his mind straight. He calls his mum first and lets her build his ego as tall as one of the skyscrapers he’s staring at, scoffs at the way she calls him brilliant while privately carving out a spot in his chest to hold her words and their warmth for when he needs it again.

His dad is next; his dad who asks questions about rent in New York and his salary, and asks if he thinks Verve will progress his career. He ends the phone call by asking if Zayn is happy, asking if, after that, anything else really matters.

His last call is Liam, Liam who answers the phone in his office and sounds almost too professional until Zayn starts laughing at him and he realizes who exactly is on the other line. Liam wants to hear every detail about everything as usual but Zayn only gives him a cool brush over of the events, tells him he has his own personal recruiter which sends Liam’s voice up a few octaves while he tells Zayn how badass he is and how he’s going to take over the world and get laid all the time. Liam’s words aren’t as warm like his mum’s but he holds onto them anyway, laughing indulgently at his best friend. Zayn finally asks him what he should do, what Liam thinks, and his parting words are to do whatever he doesn’t think he’ll regret later.

“What does that mean, Li?” Zayn rubs at his face. “If either choice I make goes wrong, that will obviously be the one I regret.”

He can hear Liam’s fingers against his keyboard and pictures him in his office, his double computer screens and financial worksheets all spread out in front of him; the kind of work that makes Zayn want to backflip off the Empire State building.

“I mean do the one you may not always be able to. London loves you, your office loves you. Right now, New York and Verve love you in a way London doesn’t.” He must hear Zayn sigh into the phone because he laughs. “I was trying for philosophical,” he says.

“Feel like you missed the mark, bro.”

Liam laughs and Zayn can almost see his eyes squint with it when he tries hard enough. “You can always come back to London but you might not get this chance again.”

“There we go,” Zayn says, stretching his arms over his head. “Figured that’s what you were saying under all that.”

“You’re a real dick, you know that? You move to America and I might forget your name.”

Zayn gasps, “You love me too much for that.”

He sighs and Zayn hears the heartache an ocean away, “We will not get into it right now because I’ll cry. And twenty-seven year old men do not cry in their offices. I’m proud of you, okay?” There’s a sharp intake of breath and Zayn feels something in the back of his throat itch. “I have to get off the phone,” Liam’s voice is thick, “But don’t let this emotional turmoil lead you astray, okay? I swear I’m over the moon about this for you.”

Zayn swallows and rubs at his eyes. “I know, I know,” he says, letting Liam melt into pleasantries until he hangs up the phone. He flops back on his bed and bites his fist as he smiles.

Now that he’s done this part, consulted with his highly trained board of advisors, got his head back on straight, he knows where he’s going next.

...

The logistics don’t take long to work out. Not once Zayn showers and gets dressed, calls Max directly and meets him at the office. There’s no pageantry in signing a legal document saying that Zayn was not coerced from his current position and that he will stay with the agency for eighteen months as a trial run before he makes any decision to leave. There’s a non-disclosure agreement to sign, which makes Zayn feel more important than he is, and then there’s a handshake from Max Marquez, one that’s genuine and doesn’t instantly make Zayn feel as if he’s made a huge mistake.

“Happy to have you, Zayn,” he says as he walks him down the hallway, one Zayn will walk down every day soon. They agree he will go home to London for three weeks before he makes the move, enough time to give notice at his old job with the leaky ceilings, a chance to get things together before he comes to America for good.

“I’m excited to get started,” Zayn says, and means it. This is the new beginning he wanted, the one that feels like taking a chance. A chance that might make him crash in a pile of rubble but feels like it’s worth taking anyway.

Before he leaves the building, he pauses at the elevator, call button already illuminated and elevator on its way. He goes over to the reception desk and smiles at the woman sitting there before he asks. “Can you tell me where Harry Styles’ office is?”

Outside, Zayn uses Google Maps to point him on the right path. The city blocks are larger than he anticipates and by the time he arrives his neck is warm and he’s undone his tie just slightly.

There’s a receptionist waiting for him in Harry’s office, a younger guy with red hair, a headset attached to the phone pressing down on his artful quiff. Zayn asks to see Harry and he’s met with a blank stare.

“Do you have an appointment?” His voice is thick as he eyes Zayn like he’s about to steal one of the art pieces from the wall and make a run for it.

“Not really,” Zayn says. “I was just stopping by, really. In the neighborhood.”

“Are you a friend?” The kid behind the desk raises his eyebrow as if to doubt it.

Zayn has a mental image of all Harry’s friends actually wearing floral suits so that they can be identified as belonging. It takes a lot for him not to laugh out loud. “You could say that.”

His other eyebrow shoots up to join the first and Zayn realizes he’s reading much more into what he had meant to imply. Zayn smiles again, not bothering to correct it.

“I’ll call his assistant,” he says, dialing on the phone without letting his eyes drop from Zayn’s face. A multi-talented receptionist, he is.

Zayn nods and walks around the lobby a bit, admiring the art and luxurious couches, trying to picture what Harry would look like behind a desk somewhere in the building but can’t quite master it.

The receptionist says Julia will come and get him and Zayn does his best not to stick his tongue out for doubting him.

Her heels clicking along the floors, announces Julia’s arrival. She has a big smile on her face once she sees Zayn. It’s disorienting to remember they met only a few days ago when Zayn feels like he’s lived a couple of weeks in that span.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call before,” Zayn says, walking towards her. Harry gave him a business card that first night with his number and Julia’s -- Zayn just has no idea where that card has gone.

“Don’t worry,” she says, motioning along behind her. “I know he’ll want to see you.”

“Is that a good thing?” He can’t help but ask. The hallways are painted a dark blue and it gives an underwater feeling, the light from the windows reflecting in waves.

Julia looks over her shoulder, bites her lip before she answers like she’s debating saying anything at all. “Usually, when a client comes unannounced they never make it past the front desk.” She faces front again and Zayn fish mouths because what the fuck is that supposed to mean.

They pass offices with closed doors and windowed conference rooms as they walk. Zayn notices Harry’s friend Jeff in one of the rooms wearing a suit, and presenting something while looking deadly serious about it.

Julia curves into an open space with a desk facing outwards. Harry Styles is printed on a black and white nameplate hanging next to the door directly behind it.

“You can go on in,” she says, collecting some folders from the desk in front of the door, clearly hers.

Zayn doesn’t stop to consider Julia hasn’t told Harry he’s visiting, as he opens the door and steps inside his office. He’d failed at picturing Harry in his office earlier but even if he had managed it, nothing could prepare him for the scene in front of him.

The office is ordinary enough, high windows and a small circular table in the corner, bleak white walls with scattered bulletin boards and a calendar. In the middle, rather than a standard wooden a wooden desk, Harry Styles stands on a treadmill in black shorts and a white shirt with his computer situated on the raised flat top, a green smoothie sitting near his hand.

“Christ.” When Harry catches sight of Zayn he chokes on his smoothie, coughing as he catches himself on the edge of the treadmill. “How did you get in here?” He stands straight and taps some buttons on the side of the treadmill desk until the belt slows completely.

“Do you really have a treadmill for a desk?” Zayn points, “Like, legitimately?”

Recovering well, Harry shrugs, and takes a sip of his smoothie. It looks gooey to Zayn, like something he would gag on with one taste. “I like it.”

“I read an article about the Editor of Cosmopolitan having one of those,” he says, stepping closer as Harry gets off. He’s not sweaty; his cheeks are flushed though that may have been from Zayn catching him off guard like this.

“Really?” Harry crosses his arms, “What were you doing reading an article on Joanna Coles?”

Zayn smirks, “You’re the one who knows her name.”

Harry shakes his head, “Not the point. How’d you get in here?”

“Scaled the building,” Zayn starts.

“Tough shit, that, considering it’s a one story building.”

Zayn laughs and takes Harry’s place on the treadmill, holding on to the sides carefully but feeling a vibrant bubble in his stomach, like nothing can knock him off kilter. “Julia brought me back. I didn’t realize she hadn’t told you.”

Harry’s hands fall to his waist, “She thinks she’s so funny sometimes.” His lips pout for a moment as he looks at Zayn. “What are you even doing here? Your feet are on my desk by the way.”

Zayn scoffs, “It’s meant for feet. Besides, would you really talk to one of your co-workers like that?”

“I told you that’s not what this would be like. We wouldn’t even work together--” Harry stop suddenly. He stares at Zayn as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a slip of hard plastic, his most recent picture printed on it and the Verve logo over top. “No way.”

Zayn slides the ID card back in his pocket. “They don’t hand those out for free you know. I had to sign like eight different contracts.”

Harry’s eyes are wide, lips parted, as he crosses the room. For one startling moment, Zayn actually thought he might hug him before he grasps the edge of the desk instead.

“Congratulations,” he says, grinning. The smile dims slightly when he clears his throat, “That’s incredible, Zayn.”

Zayn smirks and gets off the treadmill just in case it manages to start unexpectedly and forces him into some sort of physical exercise. “Figured I should come tell you in person that you got your big signing bonus and I didn’t hop the first flight back to Heathrow instead.”

Harry looks at him for a moment, his eye twitching slightly. He starts to speak but before Zayn can catch it he must change his mind, shaking his head. “Commission is the technical term,” he says, and Zayn sees the classic Harry Styles mask again but only briefly. “We have to celebrate,” he says, back to Harry again. “My friend owns one of the best new bars in the city, it was in the New Yorker and everything.” He must misinterpret Zayn’s blank stare at the humble brag as contempt for the idea. “Honestly, what else are you going to do? Go sit in your hotel and count the thread count on your sheets?”

Zayn laughs at that, shakes his head.

“It’s over eight-hundred, I’m sure.”

“You’re insufferable sometimes, has anyone told you that?”

His lips twitch slightly. “A couple of times, yeah. But it’s not like you have a better option.” He raises an eyebrow, dares Zayn to say he’s been invited elsewhere.

“Send me the address,” he says after a bit of a silent stare down, talking before he can start laughing.

Harry walks towards the table in the corner and picks up his work iPhone, the silver one. “That’s what I thought.”

Zayn leaves him while he’s still looking at his phone though he takes one last glance at his office, standing desk with treadmill, gooey green smoothie and all. It’s not until he’s out on the street that he feels his phone vibrate against his thigh with an address from an unknown number.

...

Giving up the town car for the night, Zayn takes a cab to the address Harry gives him. He imagines one day he’ll know if they’re on the east side or maybe north, if they’re in Brooklyn or Harlem but, as it is, he gets confused by the whirlwind of streets as the cab dodges around.

The bar, simply called 28, is on a corner, a small awning making it inauspicious next to the other restaurants on the street. Not exactly what Zayn pictured one of Harry’s friends owning.

Before he fully steps up on the curb, the cab is disappearing back into traffic, honking the whole way. Zayn pulls open the door with ‘28’ printed in type font to a straight up staircase. The further he gets up, the more he can hear -- the low roll of music and groups of people talking and yelling over each other, laughter filtering alongside.

A bouncer at the door let’s Zayn in with a nod, his arms crossed over his chest. Inside, the ceilings are high with the far wall opening completely onto a rooftop. On either side of where Zayn stands, a bar is illuminated by green and blue lighting, the floor open between and covered with tall tables and bar stools. The music is indie if Zayn places it correctly, some indistinct mumbling filtering through the speakers.

There is a large crowd, one Zayn can’t quite get through, people standing and sitting in trendy leather and plaid, no mini skirts or stuffy suits anywhere to be found. Zayn is glad for his dark blue button down shirt and combat boots, everything else packed neatly in his suitcase for in the morning. He looks around a bit hopelessly, not sure where to go and a bit too insecure to wander alone. Harry must spot him before he sees Harry because suddenly he’s coming up from his side, a smile on his face and some red drink in his hand.

“You made it,” he says. His voice carries over the loud crowd, deeper than everything else somehow. “I’ve been watching for you.” He gestures towards the far bar where he must have been waiting.

“This is a sick place,” Zayn says, surveying the room. Outside, people lounge on the couches with low tables near each one, an outdoor living room of sorts, with trees just behind creating a block from the rest of the city.

“Told you,” Harry says smirking. “Come with me, you need a drink and I want you to meet my friends.”

Harry stands back while Zayn orders a vodka soda at the corner of the bar but when he goes to pay the bartender waves him away. “On the house,” he says, looking back at Harry before moving on to the next person, a girl with red hair.

He follows Harry back behind the bar, a much quieter lounge with only a few people on couches and at tables, no lead way out onto the roof. Harry glances over his shoulder, as if to make sure Zayn is still there, as they approach a corner table where two guys sit.

One has bleached blonde hair with dark roots and a blue shirt, the other with shaggy brown hair brushing over his forehead. Both of them are looking at a series of papers on the table in front of them. Harry kicks the empty chair at the edge of the table and the sound makes them look up.

Niall Horan introduces himself first, standing to shake Zayn’s hand, his Irish accent clear and warm. He let’s go of Zayn’s hand to wrap his arm around Harry, squeezing his shoulders and whispering something in his ear that makes them both laugh. It catches Zayn off guard, how young Harry suddenly looks, the genuine smile there.

Louis Tomlinson rolls his eyes at both of them before reaching for Zayn’s hand without standing. His blue eyes nearly pierce Zayn’s, his handshake firm and almost squeezing. His quick, “Pleasure,” and short smile are not nearly as welcoming as Niall.

“Here, grab a chair,” Niall says, letting go of Harry and grabbing a fourth chair, dragging it up next to the table. He takes the closest one to Louis, spinning the chair around to straddle it as Zayn and Harry sit down.

“Heard you got yourself a new job, Zayn,” Niall says, smiling and leaning in. He sounds excited and Zayn leans closer too, latching onto that genuine familiarity that is easy to fall into with the right people. He tells Niall he signed the contract and dutifully answers his questions about the job and coming from London. Niall is candid when he speaks, laughing evenly and openly at himself and at Zayn, acting as if Harry and Louis aren’t even there.

Zayn wishes he could so easily ignore the other two, as they lean together and whisper, Louis’ tone more fierce than Harry’s.

 

“You’re from Ireland, then?” Zayn says, trying to focus on their conversation.

“Sure am,” Niall says in an overly drawn Irish voice before laughing it off again. His laugh lights up his face -- kind of makes Zayn want to tell him all of his secrets. It turns out, Niall met Harry their first year of college, both coming to the states for the first time. “He never got rid of me,” he says with a smile, taking a drink from a beer he has on the table in front of him.

Before Zayn can ask much more, Louis steals his attention as he pushes back from the table and takes the stack of papers with him; Not a word to anyone else at the table.  Harry watches him go, his jaw clenching before he turns around, smile back on his face.

Niall rolls his eyes, “He has a stick up his ass tonight. I don’t know.” He’s clearly saying it to Harry.

“Louis owns this place,” Harry says, grabbing for his drink and pulling it closer. “He uses Thursday nights to go over numbers and stuff, it stresses him the fuck out every time.” That explains the papers that were spread out over the table at least.

“I was trying to help,” Niall says, “Been drinking too many of these to help at all.” He laughs and raises his glass to knock against Harry’s before they both put the glasses to their lips.

“Did Louis go to school with you too?” Zayn draws his fingers through the trail of condensation on the table.

Harry shakes his head but Niall answers. “He’s Harry’s friend from home. They met when they were three or something like that. Louis followed Harry over here a couple of years ago and opened this place.”

“I like that you say he followed me,” Harry says, “Makes me feel more special than I am.”

Niall laughs, “Someone has to stroke your ego. Otherwise you’d be all shy and shit like when we first met.” He winks and they laugh again, though Zayn can’t follow why. It’s hard to imagine Harry as shy ever, this guy who rubs shoulders with everyone he meets, smooth talks like it’s second nature.

“Zayn, tell me about yourself,” Niall says suddenly.

Zayn laughs, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

Harry grins, “He means it, too. One of those people who actually cares about what your first pet was.”

Zayn smirks, looking at Harry. “Are you saying you don’t care what my first pet was?”

“I won’t say I don’t care,” Harry says slowly, eyes squinting, “Just that it’s not above average on the interesting chart for me.”

“Ah, yes, the interesting chart,” Zayn says, nodding.

“What was it, then?” Niall says, focusing on Zayn. “Your first pet?”

“We had a cat,” Zayn says. “An orange tabby we all called Chunk.”

Harry snorts, “Fascinating.”

“What? Have you got something better? Was your first pet a unicorn?”

Harry smiles, “Close. Just a goldfish called Goldie, though.”

Zayn laughs despite himself, Niall’s laughter echoing over his. Niall doesn’t get a chance to share his own history of pets, as Louis appears back at the table, papers gone and one button undone on his shirt.

“Let’s get out there,” he says. “I need a drink.”

Harry and Niall stand to follow him, so Zayn does as well not wanting to get, or rather stay, on Louis’ bad side.

“This will be fun,” Niall murmurs from next to Zayn as they leave the back lounge, “Louis never truly enjoys a night at his bar. Always finds something he needs to fix, something he suddenly hates.”

He points towards Zayn’s half empty glass, “My advice is to drink up now.”

Zayn takes note of how Niall and Louis both act with Harry as they all converge against the bar back in the main room, filling their drinks as they talk. Niall constantly touches Harry, knocks his hip or grabs his shoulder, whereas Louis is always watching, wearily at times when people come up to hug Harry like he’s a pop star, girls pressing in so close Zayn can smell their perfume from across the group, something expensive and sweet but different on each one of them. One girl nearly snarls at Louis before she whispers something in Harry’s ear and Louis face is splashed in amusement.

“See, we don’t get on, her and I,” he tells Zayn, conspiratorially almost, as if they are friends. “A few years ago, before I moved here, I was out at one of those fancy galas with Haz and he was trashed like, ridiculously so. When I found him, the sweet girl right there,” He nods towards the blonde who is pressing against Harry, mouth pressed to his ear, “Was taking off his rings and watch to put in her purse.”

Zayn gapes, “No way.”

Louis nods, pursing his lips; the picture of judgment. Harry, for his part, gently extricates the girl’s hands from his shirt and steps in closer to Niall. Before she leaves, the girl looks back at Louis who curls his lips. It’s all very Gossip Girl and Zayn in intrigued. Not that he’s watched Gossip Girl -- It had been a fluke accident one night at his sister’s flat when he said he was interviewing for a job in New York. He’d never seen her queue up Netflix so quickly.

Harry turns towards Zayn, almost like he knows what Louis has just told him. “She wanted to meet you,” he says, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Why didn’t you let her?” Niall pokes Harry’s arm, “He’s going to live in this city, he needs friends.”

Harry smirks, “I told her your earrings didn’t have real diamonds.”

Zayn closes his eyes and tips his head back, Louis knocks his glass against Harry. “My man,” he says, shaking his head as Harry smiles close lipped.

“She didn’t take too well to that,” Harry says.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to be so catty,” Zayn says to him.

“I can be anything I want to be.” He sounds borderline teasing, takes a sip from his drink to punctuate it.

Zayn notices Louis watching both of them again, eyes darting and a small smile on his lips. He’s not sure why but it feels almost like approval. Approval of what, he can’t quite place.

Niall turns out to be right about Louis though. Ten minutes later he’s on his hands and knees taking a picture on his phone of where the corner of the bar meets the floor, a thin crack running along the foundation.

Louis abandons them shortly after to go back to his office and contact the construction company and Niall gets wrapped up by a group of loud Irish men. Harry tells Zayn he can’t be sure if Niall actually knows them or it’s just the fact they’re all Irish that has them downing pints at the bar with their arms wrapped around each other like old friends.

Harry and Zayn migrate outside instead, sitting on the cement corner of the rooftop, backs pressed against a secure wooden railing.

The air is warm again but the loud conversations and laughing have passed, a more muted crowd now that midnight has nearly come.

“Most places seem to get louder as the night goes on,” Zayn notes, watching a group of couples drinking glasses of wine on one of the couches.

Harry nods, prodding at the ice in his drink with his straw. “I think that’s part of the appeal. There’s a young and vibrant crowd at the beginning before they go to clubs and then a chill crowd to pick up the back end with no interest in clubs.”

Zayn hums, only imagining how much Harry knows about 28 and the target market after being so close with the owner of it all.

“So,” Zayn says, setting his drink on the cement pad and resting his chin on his palm. “Can you tell me the secret now?”

“What secret?”

“At Black Tap, the other night, you said everyone was a puzzle when you were recruiting them, your job was to figure them out.” Harry smirks at Zayn’s memory. “Then, you said you don’t share secrets. But, where’s the harm in telling me now?”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, then tugs on the bottom edge of his hair. “Each person I’ve worked with is vastly different than the others but most want to be dazzled. I think you said pretty views and nice buildings the other night.”

Zayn nods, that was also when he’d not so modestly called himself a game changer.

“You definitely didn’t like any of that,” Harry says, laughing a bit. “I can say you are one of the first who almost caught me off guard.”

“Almost?”

“Here we are, aren’t we?” Harry motions around them, a smug smile on his lips.

Zayn narrows his eyes. “It had everything to do with the city and the job, nearly nothing to do with your fancy suits or two iPhones.”

“Hey.” Harry pouts but seems to take the jab in stride. He laughs and takes the final sip of his drink, while Zayn reaches for his own.

It’s quiet for a moment, other people’s dull conversations drifting over. Inside, Zayn can see Louis behind the bar serving drinks now -- multitalented as an owner.

“What happens now?” Harry asks, looking around the roof but still talking to Zayn. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen someone once they sign the contract. Not by choice at least.”

Zayn laughs, “I go home tomorrow for three weeks and then I’ll be back, have a couple of days to look for apartments before I start.”

“Three weeks,” Harry repeats, nodding.

“Yeah.” Zayn circles his straw against the melting ice in his glass. “We should hang out sometime, when I’m back for good.” Truth be told, Harry is all he’s got in the city so far, and somewhere along the way he’s felt like they forged a friendship of sorts or that they could give it a chance.

Harry looks over, eyes tracing his face wearily before his whole expression goes ice cold. “I guess we could. Like I said, I don’t usually see clients after they sign their contracts, though.”

There’s no mirth in his voice or light in his eyes. He just honestly sounds like Zayn’s offer is a chore. Zayn feels a sinking sensation in his stomach, cheeks heating without his permission.

His sights have never been set on impressing Harry Styles but to end up asking for friendship and being struck down automatically...it stings.

Zayn nods anyway and keeps his face even as he tells Harry he’s going to head out to get some rest before his flight. Harry doesn’t ask him to stay.

“Have a safe flight home,” Harry says, standing up as well.

“Thanks.” Zayn tries to smile, “And thanks for everything else too. I know this is your job and everything but I enjoyed myself. Honestly.”

Harry’s eyebrows pull together, almost in confusion. “I didn’t mean --”

Zayn isn’t in the business of gaining sympathy so he shakes his head and smiles to cut Harry off, “It was mutually beneficial, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

Not wanting to embarrass himself any further, Zayn turns away and walks back through the bar. He waves at Louis when he catches his eye and feels relieved when Louis nods back, doesn’t ignore him completely. He and Niall must feel obligated to be nice when Harry brings around clients. At the beginning of the night, it didn’t seem like Louis was going to hack it. Maybe he gets tired of all the playing pretend, making people feel welcome only to never see them again.

Zayn feels like his stomach is shaking, like he’s been played though he’s known since the word go that this is what his relationship with Harry was meant to be. All business. Again and again Harry has made it clear, his relationships end when the contract is signed.

Zayn scans towards where Niall had been but he doesn’t see him anymore. He doesn’t make further effort to find him; he won’t push himself on Niall either. Not like he’d embarrassingly done with Harry, at least.

At the top of the stairs, he spares one last glance towards the rooftop. Harry is sitting in the same place Zayn left him, playing with the rings on his fingers by the looks of it. His hair drapes over his face so Zayn can’t see much. Right as Harry lifts his head, maybe feeling the phantom itch of a gaze on him, Zayn moves down the stairs, focusing on his feet. He doesn’t know why Harry looked up or where his eyes went next. He tries his hardest not to even care.

...

Zayn’s nonstop flight from JFK to Heathrow leaves at ten-thirty the next morning and he doesn’t hear another word from Harry Styles.

...  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes: "Best Fake Smile" - James Bay


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know, don't own, none of this is real -- all of those things.  
> xo

Zayn leaves London in a cloud of fog three weeks later, worried about whether the pilot will have enough visibility to take off without hitting another plane. He takes a sleeping pill before they take off and after that he forgets to be worried too much. By the time he wakes up, he’s three thousand miles away from home.

He texts his mum once the plane lands on American soil, sends the obligatory text that he’s made it alive. He scrolls through his Instagram while people start getting off only vaguely annoyed by the ones behind him already standing like they might push him down to get out the door first.

He has a copy of The New Yorker he read during the flight that he folds in half and slides in his backpack. Somehow, he knocks his head against the seat tray in front of him in the process of pulling his backpack free. He rubs at his forehead, the exact point hit by the hard plastic, as he files out of his row.

The last three weeks have been a whirlwind from the moment he touched down at home. His whole family was at the airport with signs of congratulations. Liam was there too, with one arm around Zayn’s mum, the other around his dad. Zayn was surprised when his heart stung just as badly as his eyes when he made his way over to them.

He put in his two weeks notice the next Monday, helped Liam look for a studio flat and then move into said flat the subsequent weekend. With the time left after that, he tried to figure out who he should grab drinks with to say goodbye, who could do with just a text. Overwhelmed by it all, though, he spent most of his nights with Liam or his family, talking about his week in New York, all the ways he had been convinced to stay.

When he mentioned Harry it was as the butt of a joke, over extenuating his slow drawl and his posh demeanor. Only in hindsight does he feel bad for ignoring the softer moments, the night at Black Tap and the bridge. Even then, the hindsight regret doesn’t last long when he thinks about the quicksand feeling of his last night in New York, the burning shame of being a grown man asking for friendship and not getting it in return.

He’d spent a fair amount of time packing for his own move but most of that time was spent deciding what Liam could use instead and what to give away. Zayn gave himself a budget to buy most of his things new once he finds his apartment in the city rather than pay for his bed and broken down dresser to be flown all the way across the ocean.

Now, grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment, Zayn tries his best to not think about the prospect of actually finding an apartment, which feels like the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack.

His forehead aches as he gets off the plane though now he’s not sure if it was whacking his face on the tray on the seat or the lingering effects from the last two days. Both had been spent getting spectacularly drunk with Liam at their favorite pubs, heart to hearts in empty alleyways and then drinking more. Liam cried once or twice though he would vehemently deny it later.

The terminal at JFK is familiar to Zayn once he gets off the plane, the same one from his first trip. He traces around in circles towards baggage claim, up and down stairs and then into the area with four carousels tucked together, his flight number flashing overhead of one.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he fishes it out, glancing at the preview. His whole stomach clenches.

**12:42**

_Turn left when you come out of baggage claim._

Three days ago exactly, Zayn had been sitting on the floor of his parent’s house and playing a board game with his youngest cousin, Ahir, when he got a text from an unknown number. He opened the message with a slide of his finger to see, in shades of black and white, five little words: _Has it been three weeks?_ The only other message in the thread was the address of a place in New York and Zayn put together the pieces quickly: The address of 28, Louis Tomlinson’s bar.

Harry Styles.

At the time, Zayn wasn't sure of a response other than admitting that, yes, it had been three weeks. He let the message sit untouched for the duration of the first board game and then looked at it again once Ahir pulled out Monopoly. Ahir had thrown a game piece at him for taking too long to start the game so he’d shot out a one word answer to Harry almost proud of the distant way he sounded, the nonchalance of a simple, _Yep_.

Harry didn’t even take through Ahir’s first turn to text him back, asking about his return flight and if he had someone to pick him up at the airport. Zayn rolled his eyes at the second part; Harry full well knew he didn’t have a soul in the city to pick him up at the airport.

The text seemed to come out of left field and Zayn could only assume Harry felt bad about what had happened and wanted to try and smooth things over. Make nice and play pretend awhile longer. The truth of it was, he didn’t know if he wanted to see Harry -- If he could handle it after tucking his tail and running three weeks earlier. He ignored the text again and got his ass handed to him at Monopoly by a six year old.

His professionalism got the best of him eventually, reminded him that just because he got his feelings hurt didn’t mean the world stopped and he really needed to grow up a bit. Zayn responded the following morning with what was, essentially, diplomatic thanks but no thanks only to be met with Harry’s polite, and honestly annoying, insistence. In the end, Zayn gave in just to make Harry stop and agreed to be picked up. Seeing Harry is not necessarily the highest of priorities on his list and, frankly, he’s been dreading it for the last couple of days. Though, it turns out, if he spends enough time pretending he didn’t actually want to be friends with Harry in the first place, the sting of rejection just dulls to a slight buzz.

Zayn’s bag comes tumbling through the baggage terminal a moment later and he grabs it mid roll to heave it over the metal edge and onto the floor. His backpack, a duffle bag over his shoulder and his rolling bag behind him -- that’s it; the only things he has to his name besides a job. His sister had offered him brief solace with the reminder that he could sneakily sleep at his new desk if he didn’t find an apartment in time for his first day. He’d laughed even as he booked a hotel for his first week with the option to extend the reservation if need be.

The smell of New York, of Queens, hits Zayn face first when he walks out and he rubs at his nose to try and save himself. It doesn’t really work. He surveys the line of cars out front, looking for a black town car or perhaps a head of loose curls and an obnoxious suit. He comes up empty.

Before he can take out his phone and give up, he scans the line of cars one more time, a little more closely. This time he sees him.

Harry Styles is getting out of a black Range Rover, waving as he comes around the edge and up onto the curb. There is no fancy suit; He has on black jeans and a grey sweater, thick knit with brown elbow pads.

“You made it,” he says once Zayn remembers how his feet work and takes a few more steps to connect them. Harry reaches for the bag on his shoulder, taking it before he asks permission. “Or should I say welcome home?” He laughs almost to himself as he opens the back door and throws the bag inside, standing back with his hands on his hips. His face is wide open with his smile and Zayn is having trouble reconciling this version of Harry with the one he last saw, standing up on the roof and looking devoid of any emotion at all.

“Yeah, I did,” is the answer he settles on, smiling slightly as he puts his other two bags in the car. “Thanks again for the ride. You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s no problem,” Harry says. “I wanted to.”

Zayn isn’t sure what to say to that either so he gets in the passenger seat and shuts the door, watches Harry go around the back of the car to get in the driver’s side. Harry messes with the radio dial for a moment once he starts the car and Zayn focuses the rings on his hand, feeling a stilted divide between them.

“I’m staying near the place I was last time,” Zayn says as Harry signals to pull back into the wide lane of traffic. “I think I have the name of it somewhere.” He grabs for his phone out of the backpack behind him, twisting in his seat.

Harry drives with one hand over the wheel and the other tracing his bottom lip because of course he does. “I had actually set up a few appointments for you, if you’re up for it.”

Zayn smirks before he can help it. For all he has against Harry Styles, he still sees the charm, still can’t ignore the chance to tease him a bit.  “You mean you're taking me to see the Statue of Liberty aren’t you? You’re long awaited plan.”

Harry shakes his head. “Not quite. I actually talked to my friend, who is a realtor, about you viewing some places.”

Zayn stares, wondering if this is still some sort of misguided attempt at an apology for the way things ended between them.

“Apartment hunting?” Harry seems unsure as he clarifies, “Unless you already found one?”

Zayn obviously can’t lie about it because he actually does need to find a place to live. But, by the same point, he’s unsure why Harry’s sympathy has taken the shape of being helpful in such a daunting task. When Zayn feels bad he just settles on an apology text or he lets it fester until he feels sick to his stomach.

“I haven’t, no,” he says after a slip too long of a pause. Maybe he shouldn’t be bothered if Harry wants to help him with this, surely that will be better than a Google search without a clue about where to start. He’d tried one pass on Google while lying on Liam’s couch the week before and promptly gave up once the listings had loaded. He was overwhelmed, to say the least.

Zayn’s lack of enthusiasm doesn’t jilt Harry at all; he seems to take it in stride as they pull onto one of the highways nearest the airport. He asks Zayn about his last few weeks at home and midway through brushing over the details Zayn realizes Harry is actually listening to him.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks when Zayn suddenly stops talking.

“Yeah, why?” Zayn hears defense in his voice though he’s not sure why.

“Nothing,” Harry says, eyes on the road. “You just haven’t made any comments about how I’m driving on my own or that I’m wearing my plainest and most boring sweater.”

That breaks something between them and Zayn laughs, adjusting his seat belt across his chest. “Maybe I want to keep you on your toes. Can’t make it too predictable.”

...

It takes awhile to get back in the city and Zayn realizes with startling clarity why no one chooses to drive themselves around. There is a lot of cursing and haphazard lane changes as they navigate through, and some of the more reckless driving comes on Harry’s part. Zayn reaches out to hold onto the window three separate times. Finally, Harry manages to parallel park on a side street with only minor difficulty before getting out to take a picture on his phone.

“I need to send this to Jeff,” he says, pointing out the perfect spacing to Zayn. “This is exactly the kind of thing he always gives me shit for.” He smiles to himself while he sends the picture, standing in the middle of the street. Miraculously, no cars come by and hit them which is good considering Zayn isn’t sure that documenting a good park job counts as a valid defense in a lawsuit.

“Is he here?” Zayn asks. “Jeff, I mean. You said he runs offices in LA?”

“Yeah,” Harry puts his phone in his back pocket, “LA is his home base, he just comes out here for meetings and to see me or I’ll fly out over there. I prefer that,” he says, thoughtfully, as they start walking away from the car. “Gain hours that way, which is fun.”

Zayn nods and then asks because he can’t help himself. “Are you like, dating?”

Hand over his heart, Harry cackles--bent over at the waist with his arm clutching his stomach, as Zayn’s face turns red.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, standing back up, wiping at his eyes, still laughing through his words. “I just gotta tell him you said that.” He grabs his phone from his pocket again, “He’s going to throw up.” He laughs as he starts texting again, walking with his eyes on his phone screen.

...

Perhaps Harry worked in leasing in a past life or he’s just used to the process but, either way, Zayn is impressed as Harry ushers him in one space and out to the next, making small talk with each landlord as Zayn looks around.

Zayn isn’t exactly confident on what he’s looking for but he knows his budget and he tries to keep calm in the face of the more luxurious places Harry takes him. One has a wall made up of only windows, like Zayn’s hotel his first week and oak wood floors. He doesn’t even have to ask to know it costs too much for even his pretend budget. For the most part, though, Harry seems to understand Zayn’s financial concerns without him having to voice them. The majority of the places he’s arranged are a good size with large open floor plans and plenty of windows.

“More than one window in the city is a gift,” one landlord says, after Harry remarks on the natural lighting.

Zayn laughs before realizing she isn’t joking.

“I have six windows in my apartment.” Harry smiles, smug, and winks at Zayn.

For what it’s worth, Zayn is pretty sure the windows in Harry’s place are those ones that go from the floor to ceiling -- they’re the only ones that fit with his perpetual image of Harry at home with a robe and slippers with look books at the ready. He can never seem to move his mental version of Harry away from his armchair overlooking the city in the silk robe.

Harry in real life, right in front of Zayn, is acting nothing like Zayn’s mental armchair Harry. He jokes around with Zayn as they visit place after place, even as Zayn paces back and forth in the ones he likes and talks himself in and out of signing a lease on the spot. One he particularly likes gets snatched right out from beneath him, literally, as the couple viewing alongside him and Harry signs the lease agreement against the front door. In another, he flips through one of the handouts sitting on the glass entryway table as Harry asks about the safety of the neighborhood and nearby subway stations.  Zayn rolls his eyes at him when they connect gazes over the shoulder of the landlord but the sentiment is nothing if not caring.

As Zayn’s jet lag catches up to him, his temper starts to run shorter, hunger riding shotgun to tiredness. Harry is still upbeat on their eleventh stop and Zayn kind of wants to swat him and tell him to be quiet for a bit. He has no idea if Harry being there is actually genuine, or if it’s just a favor, another thing on his to do list. Zayn starts wanting to tell him to just leave and that he isn’t at risk of un-signing the contract just because Harry didn’t want to be his friend. He’s twenty-seven and he can handle himself on his own. He doesn’t want sympathy, from Harry Styles in particular.

They’re in one of the places Zayn has liked the most when he snaps. It has wooden floors and a spacious kitchen despite only being a studio. It’s perfect, really. Even as Harry ballroom dances alone across the main floor, laughing.

“You should put in a dance floor here,” he says, “And have dance parties.”

The landlord starts to laugh at him but catches herself and goes to stand out of earshot by the door so that’s when Zayn bites the bullet, hard. Maybe because of the jet lag and the hunger and the frustration of the New York real estate market or maybe just because Zayn can’t seem to bite his tongue. Whatever it is, it makes Zayn say out loud the same things he’s been thinking for the last four apartments.

“Harry, you can just stop. Actually, I’m begging you to stop.”

Harry stops dancing immediately but Zayn’s not sure he got the point, his dimple still curving in one side.

“Like, is this whole thing,” he gestures vaguely, “A part of your job or something? If you’re not getting paid to be here, you don’t have to be. I promise you, I won’t be offended.”

His smile, the ghost of it, drops from Harry’s face. “I’m not here because I have to be. Looking for apartments isn’t like, my hobby.” Harry smiles at Zayn’s blank stare. “I thought we’d kind of become friends? If you want to pay me to be your friend, I won’t say no.” He shrugs, “But I’ll also do it for free.”

He resumes dancing around, slower now, and Zayn takes a deep breath. To hear it three weeks ago, friendship was the equivalent of pulling teeth now Harry is acting as though Zayn has been reading into things that weren’t even there. He’s just the guy holding a grudge where, evidently, there isn’t one to be held. At the same time, on the other side of the coin, he knows exactly what Harry said to him three weeks ago, hasn’t forgotten the coldness in his stare. Surely, it can’t all have been imagined. Still, he’s not going to be the guy with a grudge, not tonight at least. As long as he can get through a couple more hours of apartments, he won’t need to see Harry again. This time, he can be the one who leaves him out cold.

“I think your bed could go here,” Harry says, pulling Zayn out from the dark corners of his mind.

Zayn bites the insider corner of his lip and shrugs. “Sure.”

“What size bed is it?” Harry holds his arms out wide as if to be an effective tape measure. Zayn tries very, very hard not to laugh and indulge him.

“I think a Queen.”

Harry drops his arms, “You think?”

“Haven’t bought it, have I?” Zayn leans against one of the walls, “Once I have a place, I was just planning to have Ikea deliver what I need.”

“Deliver?” Harry pouts out his bottom lip.

“Do you recommend I lug it all home in my invisible car?”

“No,” Harry says, sighing. “I was just going to offer to go with you to the Ikea and then I could have their meatballs.”

“Meatballs?” Zayn actually laughs this time and rolls his eyes.  “Seriously?”

Harry crosses his arms, eyes narrowing, “Have you had them? They’re fucking delicious.”

“I mean, yeah. Once or twice.”

Before Zayn can add anything else; Harry talks over him, saying, “Don’t act like I’m a lunatic. You want their meatballs too.”

Zayn puts his hands up in surrender and walks back towards the kitchen again, admitting nothing more. He opens and closes the cupboards a few times and then runs his hands over the bar. He jumps when he next hears Harry, somehow right up close to him.

“Are you signing the lease or what?” He whispers. He smells like vanilla, Zayn pretends he doesn’t notice. “All this food talk has made me beyond starved.”

Zayn scoffs. “Food talk, we mentioned meatballs once.” He laughs at the way Harry blinks, lips twitching.

“Do not insult my needs Zayn Malik.” He turns away after that but Zayn thinks he’s hiding a smile again.

“You are the epitome of the word bizarre,” Zayn calls after him, though maybe too loudly considering the emptiness of the apartment. The landlord comes back into view as if she’s been summoned, looking at Zayn expectantly.

“I think I’ll take it,” Zayn says. Somewhere across the ocean his parent’s are having spasms in their sleep to know their only son is signing a lease after an hour of deliberation but maybe this is just the kind of decision he needs to start everything off. The domino that will tip it all to the start of this new life he’s chosen.

....

Once he’s signed the papers and set a move in date for the next weekend, Harry takes Zayn to celebrate with dinner at the closest Shake Shack. Zayn thinks about fighting him on it on principle--not letting himself be shuttled around at the will of Harry Styles now that the game is over. Then again, he’s hungry and Harry is so earnest when he asks him to go, he can’t find a way to say no.

Zayn must take too long to decide what to order when they get there because Harry steps in front of him while he’s still looking at the menu. He goes right up to the counter and orders enough food for both of them and anyone else interested in joining, really.

“I said I was hungry,” Harry says when Zayn points it out, striding over to one of the tables with the confidence of a man who is not at Shake Shack for the first time.

“You don’t seem like a fast food guy,” Zayn says, sitting down across from Harry and folding a napkin in a vague origami design.

“Why not?” Harry has a fry already in his mouth, lips parting to bite the burger falling apart in his hands. It smears down his chin and he ignores wiping his face in favor of taking another bite.

Zayn looks at his own, very plain, burger in his hands, uneaten. “I don’t know,” he says instead of the truthful answer that Harry seems like the kind of person who never has anything out of place whether it be mismatched socks, dirt on his shirt or calories over a daily limit. “Clearly I’m wrong.”

He gestures towards Harry as he smears his face with another bite, taking the moment to try his own burger. If Zayn had to write an article about it, he’d fail. It tastes like any other burger he’s eaten, though perhaps with more grease than wholly necessary.

“I love it.” Harry finishes cleaning his face with a napkin and dives back into his fries. “But, I also drink a kale smoothie in the mornings and workout with Chalene at night.”

“Who is Chalene?” Zayn ignores the kale smoothie part all together. “Your personal trainer?”

Harry snorts, “Yeah, sure.”

“What? Is she your girlfriend?”

Harry shakes his head before he takes a bite of the burger again, licking some of the sauce that drips on his hand. “Not at all.”

Zayn shrugs, “That’s fine. You can be mysterious, I don’t care.”

Harry stares at him, blinking. “Chalene Johnson has a workout program that combines yoga and Pilates. It’s my favorite.”

Zayn purses his lips, “I was definitely expecting something juicier than that.”

“I’m telling you, Zayn -- When it comes to me, you’ve gotta lower your expectations.”

Considering three weeks ago Harry acted like them hanging out would be the chore of the decade, Zayn’s pretty sure his expectations have hit rock bottom. He wonders if he should say anything about it, about the reasons he’s so hesitant to understand why Harry text him first, picked him up from the airport, and chauffeured him around the city. As he did in the apartment, he wonders if bringing it up is without a fair point – if he’s the only one who ever had the problem. He doesn’t say any of that just picks at the bun on his burger and asks Harry how work has been.

Harry starts in on a story about a guy who, according to him, was on the borderline of insufferable just the week before. “I mean, I always go into it thinking the client will probably be a bit boring and full of themselves, so I was at least prepared.”

Zayn nods along, forgetting for a moment he was the client in the story only a short while ago. Harry must remember before Zayn does because he pauses, salty fry frozen halfway to his lips. Zayn catches on and shakes his head, “I know what your job is Harry. I’m sure you’ve had less than pleasant experiences,” he raises one eyebrow, “I’m sure there are people who prove you wrong.”

Harry juts his lips out slightly, “Only rarely,” he says. Then he launches back into the story and Zayn goes ahead and assumes he’s a rare one. They are hanging out and Zayn has already signed the contract, after all.

...

Harry drives Zayn back to his hotel but only after Zayn fights him wholeheartedly on it -- insists on walking until Harry embarrasses him by reminding him of Zayn’s three bags in the back of his car.

“Fair enough,” is Zayn’s best answer as he gets in the car without another word, pretending to not hear Harry laughing from the sidewalk.

Harry hums to the radio on the drive and Zayn can’t help smiling into his hand as he looks out the window. It’s really only to keep from laughing at the way Harry dodges around cars while humming Ed Sheeran like nothing strange is happening with his driving at all.

There’s no explaining what’s happening between them, why Harry is so comfortable and why Zayn is the one who is faltering in accepting it for what it is. Maybe, he tells himself, if he can stop worrying so much about it all then, an explanation doesn’t really matter.

Harry turns down the radio as Zayn starts to get out of the car in front of his hotel. “I need your number.”

Zayn squints. “I was under the impression you had my number already.”

Harry takes out his gold iPhone and hands it across the center console, “Yeah but that’s my work phone.”

It shouldn’t feel like anything when he puts his number in Harry’s personal phone, he shouldn’t feel any sort of smug rush, but as he locks it and hands back that stupid gold iPhone he feels a little bit like he’s just beat Harry Styles at his own game.

…

It’s easy to get lost in the city, to let the hours slip away until the morning and afternoon run together and suddenly evening is falling quickly over the skyscrapers, street lights coming on overhead. That’s exactly how Zayn spends the next few days while he waits for his lease to finalize.

He leaves his hotel in the mornings, usually around ten once he’s indulged in a room service breakfast, and he doesn’t come back until well into the evening hours. He finds himself lingering over certain places longer than he plans or stopping at something as he walks past, curious.

He spends one whole afternoon organizing his paperwork and visas but that’s the extent of boredom he comes across. There’s also a day he focuses only on buying clothes for work, spending more money than he should on sick shoes and jackets. Spring is just coming to a close but he knows fall is coming, eventually, and he’s heard winter is worse; he just wants to be prepared. Whether that is with six jackets of different cuts and styles remains to be seen.

Three nights in, and following a day wandering around the city for too long, feet tired and blistered from his new combat boots, Zayn orders a bottle of wine from room service and sets out to maul the Ikea website.

He’s pretty successful in not buying too many of the things he doesn’t need and though there are a few indulgences -- multi colored globes for lamps next to his bed, a mirror for above his headboard, a few art pieces he spends too long staring at -- he mostly sticks with necessities of a bed, desk, and futon. Then there’s the kitchen tab where he finds himself a bit hopeless with what he needs to get, rather used to the things that were always available in his and Liam’s kitchen at home -- things, like a cheese grater, he evidently took for granted.

Once the bottle of wine is gone and he’s firmly shut his computer to resist any more Ikea purchases, he debates texting Harry. The thought comes out of nowhere and catches him off guard. He doesn’t even know what he would even say but part of him wants to test if they’re actually friends now, or if that’s just another thing he’s read too far into and come to the wrong conclusion.

After mulling the idea further, Zayn decides that if Harry really and truly wants to be friends, he’ll reach out. If he doesn’t, that’s fine, Zayn will find other friends. Somewhere. So, he puts his phone facedown on the nightstand and gets in bed to watch Batman instead, no longer wasting time thinking about one, Harry Styles.

...

The next day, a Thursday, he spends getting absolutely lost on the subway. He doesn’t think he will have trouble navigating until he’s on a train to Brooklyn when he meant to head in towards his office, to develop a route for getting to work.

He figures there’s no changing now and he settles in for the ride, vaguely wondering what he’ll find on the other side of the Hudson River, which, evidently, this train has to go underneath to get to Brooklyn. He waits to see if there will be a difference, if he’ll know he’s underwater. His answer comes in the form of pressure in his ears, finally bursting and making him visibly wince.

A moment later, he’s startled to hear his name from somewhere in the subway car though he tries to keep his face neutral as he turns towards the direction it came from, grip tight on the overhead bar. It takes a moment to register who it is walking towards him, in a newsboy cap and green sweater, and then it all connects. “Niall?”

Niall Horan grins as he comes to stand right next to Zayn.  “Was afraid you forgot me there for a second,” he says, laughing at himself in a way Zayn is starting to assume is just his tendency.

“The hat threw me.” Zayn feels that familiar sense of ease at seeing Niall despite hardly knowing him.

Niall laughs again, tugging on the hat. “How’ve you been?” He asks, reaching out to grab the rail with his free hand when the train jolts particularly roughly.

They catch up, as much as two near strangers can, Zayn trying to replicate the comfortable recognition Niall gives off as if they’ve always been friends.

“What do you do for work, again?” Zayn asks once Niall mentions he has the day off, is headed to see a friend and watch a game.

“I’m an accountant,” Niall says. “Runs in the family, my mum and dad are both in finance so I’m taking the torch now.”

“My best mate at home, Liam, he’s in finance,” Zayn says. “He got into it because his dad and his sister are both CPAs.”

“Numbers were the only thing to make sense to me,” Niall says, lifting his shoulders, “So I went with it.”

Numbers tend to cause Zayn acute pain so he doesn’t add anything else.

“I heard we’re coming to help you put together furniture soon, eh?”

Zayn’s face must show his confusion because Niall laughs again, head tipping back.

“Bet Harry didn’t tell you he invited me and Tommo along. He’s such an idiot.”

“Sorry, I’m lost.” Zayn admits, smiling duly.

“Haz said you have furniture from Ikea and we all need to help put it together.”

Zayn resolutely doesn’t let his jaw drop open. “Oh, really?”

Niall nods, “Yeah, group chat a couple nights ago.” Zayn has a flash of Harry texting them as soon as he dropped Zayn off at the hotel but he pushes that away. “He didn’t know when, said we needed to be on standby.”

Zayn tilts his head, smiling a little. “Really?” He doesn’t realize he’s said that already until it’s out there between them.

“That’s Harry, man. He’s just sweet about stuff like this, being helpful to his friends and shit. Louis says he’s a bad example for the rest of us. Makes us look bad.” He laughs again, loudly.

“That’s really great,” Zayn says, at a loss for anything else, “I’ll double check and let you all know, then.”

“Excellent.” Niall grins as the train slows, “This is where I’m getting off. How about you?”

Zayn laughs this time. “I got on the wrong train, man. So, nowhere at the moment.”

Niall doesn’t even hesitate, “Come with me, then. Grab a drink with my mate and then I’ll put you back on the subway going the right way before dark.”

He smiles again and Zayn is helpless to do anything but follow after him.

Niall’s friend he says he is meeting ends up being a crowd of loud and happy people, a couple of whom are Irish. They welcome Zayn in as if he’s always been a part of their group, sharing a few pitchers on the patio of a small bar. One of the girls, Leeso, sits next to Zayn and tells him she works in advertising too, nonprofit, and her main client is the humane society in Brooklyn. She gives Zayn her number but without any sticky connotations of being a come on.

“You can always use a couple of new friends in the city,” she says, her long black hair tucked behind one ear.

By the time one round turns to a couple, Zayn has a few new numbers in his phone, including Niall’s, and an invite to a show the following weekend. He feels an unexpected wave of emotion, and an especially fond twirl towards Niall, for inviting him in so easily, for not making him feel like the new kid at school who no one _actually_ wants to talk to.

...

Afterward, Zayn ends up taking the subway into Grand Central Station, needing to switch trains. Somehow Grand Central wasn’t a stop on Harry’s original tour of New York so Zayn makes sure to leave the underground tunnels leading to the subway lines and come up into the main gallery.

He loves the energy, right away. There are people rushing around without making eye contact with anyone else and tourists dragging their feet as they watch the entire thing through the screen on their phones. In the distance, he can hear actual trains taking off, louder than the subway cars and announcements overhead about safety and changing platforms. He focuses on the atrium mainly, the marble floors and steps, the hugely vaulted ceiling. It looks like a painting in real life and he can’t make himself look away.

Eventually, he notices that some people have sat down on the grand staircase to admire everything at once, and his beer-infused brain tells him he should do it too. So, he does. He sits down on a step near the wall to take it all in and has to remind himself to stop smiling at everyone like a loon. He blames that on the beer as well. And then, when he takes out his phone and finds himself calling Harry Styles, he tells himself that’s the beer again, too.

Harry doesn’t answer.

The phone rings and goes to an automated voicemail and Zayn hangs up instead of leaving one. He’s not sure what he would say beyond something about how he saw Niall, how when he heard Harry wanted to help him set furniture up he’d been flooded with a weird sense of warmth and confusion. He really shouldn’t have called in the first place.

Before he can linger over any of that, his phone is vibrating in his hand with Harry’s name flashing over the screen.

“Sorry,” Harry says as soon as Zayn says hello. “I was in the middle of a back bend and I couldn’t stand up fast enough to get the phone. What’s up?”

The visual mixed with the day and Harry’s dead serious tone has Zayn shaking his head at his phone, pulling it from his ear. “I’m sorry, back bend?”

“PiYo,” Harry says like that’s an explanation.

“Again, what?”

“PiYo with Chalene,” Harry says. “It’s Pilates and yoga blended together. Like froyo but PiYo.”

Zayn is tempted to hang up and call again, try to start this over. “And back bends evidently.”

“I’ve got bad posture,” he says like that is an explanation. His words are muffled like he’s eating.

“What have you got in your mouth?” Zayn giggles despite himself, head resting against the side of one of the stairwells. He may be tipsier than he thought.

“Banana.”

Zayn smiles and closes his eyes. “This conversation has gotten off track.”

“Well, get it back on track Zayn. What should we discuss?”

“When were you going to tell me you volunteered your friends to build my furniture?”

Harry stays quiet. “Eventually,” he finally says.

“I should ask, what made you want to build my furniture?”

“Whoa, let’s not get carried away,” Harry says, voice muffled again briefly. “Sorry, taking my shirt off.”

Zayn promptly focuses on his feet and nothing to do with Harry walking around his penthouse, the only one Zayn imagines him in, half naked and sweaty. He may only be working on the friendship thing with Harry but he’s also not blind.

“I’m not doing it because I want to build shit,” Harry says, successfully pulling Zayn away from his thoughts. “I want to help you.”

Zayn doesn’t ask the obvious _why_ that lingers. “Aren’t you curious about how I know about it?”

“You were hanging out with Niall,” he says. “Saw it on Snapchat. Which is fine, obviously. Like, you can be friends with him and not invite me. I was busy.”

Zayn laughs and pulls his knees up under him, resting his chin on them. “I ran into him on the subway but by all means let that jealousy monster run wild.”

“I’m not jealous.” Harry scoffs. “I think it’s great.”

“That genuine ring of your voice is overwhelming,” Zayn deadpans.

Harry sniffs and Zayn can hear it through the line. “Anyway, when is your furniture coming?”

Zayn laughs again, imagines Harry’s stubborn face easily. “It’s all getting delivered Saturday afternoon if you want to come by. You don’t have to, though. Like, if you don’t actually want to or you’re busy or whatever.” Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose hoping that cuts off his rambling.

“Zayn, shut up for two minutes?” Harry laughs a little. “I want to, okay? Louis and Niall do too, I’m not forcing them or anything. We’ll be there on Saturday.”

“I’ll get pizza,” Zayn offers, “And beer.”

“Great, sounds like a plan.”

“Great,” Zayn parrots.

“I gotta hang up now,” Harry says. “I’m standing here naked and I can smell myself.”

Zayn stutters through his goodbye, stumbling a bit over his words. He hangs up the phone and heads towards the listing of trains to find his way back to his hotel, focusing on absolutely anything other than the latest mental visual of Harry already forming.

...

Zayn has his Ghostbusters t-shirt halfway over his head when there is an incessant buzzing from his intercom announcing the arrival of his building assistants. The Ikea people had dropped by a few hours before with his purchases and dwarfed his apartment immediately with all of the boxes.

He leaves his front door cracked once he buzzes them in and he gets the beer out of his fridge to set up on the counter. The best way to welcome friends who volunteer their labor is beer.

“Did you order pizza?”

Zayn spins around as Louis pushes through the door, Niall and Harry on his heels.

“Not yet, no.” He hadn’t even wanted to touch what he should order, whether anyone was a vegetarian or had a strong aversion to like, olives or something.

“Thank god,” Louis groans and crosses himself. “No offense I just knew you would order something terrible like Dominos or some shit.”

Zayn doesn’t get a chance to respond, Niall and Harry chastising Louis with, “Way to be a dick,” and “Shut up, Lou,” respectively.

“It’s okay,” Zayn says, shrugging when Louis scoffs at Harry and Niall both. “That’s probably what I would have done anyway. Don’t know anything else yet.”

“Exactly.” Louis claps his hands together before he climbs up on the bare counter, heels of his trainers clanking against the cupboards. “Teaching moment.”

Niall rolls his eyes before focusing back on Zayn. “I spend my life apologizing for that man.”

Harry scoffs, “Not as much as me, mate. Known him since I was four and he has yet to change.”

“Wow, you’re both dicks,” Louis says with his middle finger raised. “Zayn will be my new best friend, right?”

Zayn had kind of never expected to see Harry again a month ago, let alone Niall or Louis, and he’s caught off guard at the easy comfort between all of them. He’s also not sure how to respond to the proposition. He doesn’t, however, miss Harry’s sharp glance towards Louis. Harry, who is wearing a suit, Zayn notices suddenly, navy blue with a white shirt underneath.

“I feel underdressed,” he says, motioning towards Harry, smirking at him -- more when Harry smiles back.

“I was at work,” he says.

“Had a date, more like.” Niall rolls his eyes.

Louis catcalls and Harry’s cheeks turn red. Zayn’s never seen him blush like this, wasn’t sure it was actually possible.

“Shut up,” he says.

“He’s recruiting a model,” Niall says, bringing Zayn in on the joke. “A proper model but for an editor job.”

“Former model,” Harry clarifies quietly, as if that makes it any less appealing.

Zayn raises his eyebrows at Harry, “You’ve got a crush?”

Harry turns red again and Zayn kind of wants to keep him embarrassing him for the foreseeable future. Finally managing to ruffle him like he’s been trying to do since the first day they met.

Louis laughs, “She’s gorgeous, like,” he drops his voice, “Victoria’s Secret Angel gorgeous.”

“She’s a very nice and smart woman,” Harry says over him. “And very passionate about the job she wants.”

“Haz has a thing for the Angels,” Niall says to Zayn, looping him in again.

Louis points at Niall, “Do you remember, ah, what’s her face--”

“Okay,” Harry says loudly over both of them. “Let’s not go down memory lane, please.” He lifts up a bag Zayn hadn’t even realized he was holding. “I brought clothes to change into.” He looks towards Zayn, “May I?” Ever the picture of polite.

“Sure,” Zayn says, pointing over his shoulder, “Bathroom is--”

“Around the corner.” Harry smiles, “Been here before, haven’t I?”

Zayn smirks and steps to the side as he let’s Harry pass him. He wonders at what stage of their friendship he won't notice the smooth velvet of his voice.

Once the bathroom door clasps, Zayn turns back to Louis. “Now, about this pizza. What’s good around here?”

They’ve ordered the pizza by the time Harry emerges from the bathroom, called in for something wildly expensive but that Louis claims is the best in the neighborhood. He seems confident so Zayn doesn’t question his pizza authority.

Harry has his hair in a bun when he comes back, a grey t-shirt and black jeans with socked feet. Zayn is already starting to have a certain partiality for when Harry looks like this, like a normal person rather than all poised and polished. Perhaps it’s a sign of his friendship, when he’s comfortable to not wear a day suit or a night suit or whatever other kinds of suits he stores in, what Zayn imagines being, his massive closet.  

Niall and Louis start on the shelved room divider while Zayn and Harry split open the box containing Zayn’s new bed. It’s a mess, really, of screws and boards, funny shaped silver brackets and plastic stoppers. There’s a myriad of swear words, particularly from Louis, when it comes to things being put together incorrectly. Harry is the most patient, following the instructions step by step and Niall is constantly optimistic about each screw he finds, like it must be _the_ missing one that Louis has been cursing over.

Zayn is happy to be the one to help Harry considering he doesn’t yell at him (Louis) or threaten to hit his hand with the hammer (Louis) though whenever Harry does something wrong he just sits on the ground with the instructions and reads them all over again. He’s precise and sure; wants to make sure whatever he’s doing is done correctly.

As Zayn watches all three of them, he feels a tiny glint of luck somewhere in his chest, to have these people to come help him, that they even want to. He thinks of Liam, then -- that he would fit into this odd group, a bit of Louis’ mischief and Niall’s sunshine in him. And Harry -- well, Zayn thinks he can see his patience reflected in Liam but it’s hard to pinpoint much else, Harry is the shape shifter of the group. That, Zayn is sure of.

They stop building once the pizza comes, sitting in the middle of the floor and using the two boxes as plates each with a beer in hand. Conversation is easy between the four of them and whenever there’s shared history that Zayn can’t quite follow, Niall is always the one to fill him in.

“So, Niall and Harry, you met at school?” Zayn asks after they’ve finished recounting the opening night of Louis’ bar the year before, the way he puked over the edge of the rooftop he was so nervous about all of it -- all of which he denies.

Niall and Harry look at each other and start laughing. “He boofed on me at a party,” Niall says over his laughter.

“To be fair, you were slumped over the toilet and I needed to puke,” Harry says.

Louis smirks, “Oh, here we go.”

“There was a sink, a bathtub, and a window,” Niall says, gesturing with his pizza.

“Like I was really going to puke in someone’s sink, Niall.” Harry rolls his eyes, taking a bite of his veggie pizza.

“And the back of my head was so much better!” Niall yells and then they’re both laughing again until Harry coughs over a bit of pizza lodged in his throat.

“Unbreakable bond after that, really,” Harry says, once he’s recovered. His eyes are red from choking and he drags the back of his wrist over each one.

“Then, Louis showed up a few years after that,” Niall says. “Of course, I’d heard of him, that’s all Harry talked about when I met him first year, Lou this and Louis that. Thought they were boyfriends or something.”

Louis laughs and looks at Harry, eyes shining. “He wished.”

Harry groans, “Oh my god, you will actually hold that over my head until the day I die.”

“He had a crush on me,” he clarifies pointedly to Zayn.

“For like, half of a day when I was fifteen,” Harry says in his own defense.

“That’s a valid point,” Louis says, nodding. “He did have a girlfriend a week later and never looked back. But still, it was there for one, unforgettable moment.”

“Didn’t even work because you didn’t date boys,” Harry sighs. Zayn pretends to focus on his pizza. He’d had a feeling Harry dated both ways but he hadn’t been sure.

Louis smirks, “Maybe I would have for you.” He laughs when Harry throws a napkin at him.

“I’m no longer interested. I’m exploring other options.”

“Like a Victoria’s Secret Angel,” Niall pipes in.

“Angels,” Louis clarifies, enunciating plurality. Already having thrown his napkin, Harry throws the rest of the crust in his hand towards Louis, cheers when it hits him in the face.

They get back to the furniture building process after that, though Louis and Niall leave once their shelf is build, heading for a club opening in a part of town Zayn’s never heard of -- which is not saying much, really.

“Do you want to come, Zayn?” Louis asks, wiping his hands on his pants. “You’re obviously welcome.”

Zayn hesitates by looking at Harry who is straightening the shelving unit, adjusting the basket drawers along the bottom. “Are you going?”

Harry looks up and then stands, “Hadn’t planned on it, no.”

“Haz doesn’t really do these things anymore.” Automatically Niall is shaking his head at Louis and Harry drops his gaze again. Again, Zayn feels like he’s missed something.

Harry clears his throat and looks at Zayn. “You can go. Don’t feel obligated to stay just because I’m a master at organizing kitchens and you want to see it in action.” He smiles and Zayn can feel whatever tension had unexpectedly collected already dissipating.

“I mean, if you’re offering to organize my kitchen, I won’t say no.”

“You have to help, obviously.” Harry’s still smiling.

“I think I’ll skip this one,” Zayn says to Niall and Louis, as if to clarify his position. “Next time.”

“Works for me,” Niall says, suddenly enveloping Zayn in a hug. “I’m just so glad Harry found you by the way. I’ve been wanting to tell you that.”

“I didn’t _find_ him,” Harry says, “That’s not my job, as we’ve been over.”

Niall squeezes Zayn once more before he let’s go and turns to Harry. “Come here, you massive idiot.” He hugs Harry then; tighter than he just did to Zayn if the way Harry squawks and tries to pull away is anything to go by.

“We don’t have all night, Nialler,” Louis says from the doorway.

“God, Tommo, lighten up, man.” Niall sounds borderline annoyed as he follows after him. “Gonna make me want to stay here and play house instead.”

Zayn laughs, walking behind them. “Thank you both,” he says, “for everything, really.”

“Of course,” Louis says smiling as he opens the door, and sounding halfway genuine. Each time Zayn thinks he’s got a read on him, he loses it again. “Good luck on your first day at Verve, if I don’t see you before. Don’t wet your pants or anything.” He shouts the last part just so all Zayn’s new neighbors can hear, and his crooked smile confirms that was exactly his intent.

“I’ll try my hardest,” he says, flipping him off and then shutting the door, Niall’s laughter ringing in the hallway.

Zayn’s apartment is automatically quieter once they leave, both of them having made up the majority of the noise. Harry is already in the kitchen, slicing open the boxes and taking out the contents, humming softly.

“Alright, Mr. Styles,” Zayn says, leaning against the island across from Harry, “Show me some magic.”

Harry’s lips twitch, “First I need to see what I’m working with.”

“I may have been a bit intoxicated when I was doing the shopping part,” Zayn says, “So don’t judge me if there’s anything weird in any of these boxes.”

Harry starts setting things out on the island in neat rows, peeling off price stickers and wadding up plastic wrap. “You mean these?” He holds up a set of Star Wars juice glasses.

Zayn doesn’t dignify him with an answer before grabbing another box from the floor and digging in.

Zayn wouldn’t go so far as to say Harry is a genius in the art of organizing kitchens--he kind of does exactly what Zayn would have which seems to be all of the logical choices. Still, it’s nice to have help and to talk while they do it, mindless chatter about the things their mums used to cook for them when they were kids.

Since they met, Zayn has assumed Harry’s privileged and pretty life from the word go, complete with a cook and butler back in Cheshire. But then Harry talks about spending a couple of years growing up over top of a pub and eating tater tots for dinner some nights and Zayn’s perception is skewed all over again. Eventually, he imagines, he’ll get used to never quite knowing what Harry might say or do next.

“You don’t have very many gadgets,” Harry notes, looking around once everything is mostly put away.

“Ikea doesn’t sell that many gadgets.” Zayn pulls over the two bar stools he ordered and sits on one. Harry leans back against the counter next to the stove.

“Like, a coffee pot or a blender?”

Zayn smiles, “Maybe eventually. I’m not a big coffee guy as it is. I like tea.”

“What about a Magic Bullet?”

Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up. “A what?” His mind immediately goes into a gutter as images of vibrators suddenly dance across his mind.

“Magic Bullet,” Harry says, smiling over his words. “It’s like a high powered blender but you can make soups and smoothies and all sorts of stuff. I get them for my friends for housewarming gifts, usually.”

All of the vibrators flashing across his mind disappear in favor of biting his tongue over, “ _What about me?”_ He’s not that needy nor does he really want a something that can be mistaken for a sex toy. He hums instead and then yawns unintentionally.

“I should probably head out,” Harry says as if that were a cue. “Are you staying here tonight?”

Zayn looks around at the shrink-wrapped futon and three unopened boxes and then at his shelving unit and fully built bet bed and he nods. “All I need right there,” he says pointing towards the mattress.

“Good,” Harry says. “Your first night, then. Congrats.”

“Guess it is,” Zayn says, looking around more, glimpsing the darkness out his windows, street lights just beyond.

“Do you like it?” Harry’s voice is suddenly quieter and Zayn gets the feeling he’s not asking about kitchen organization.

“The place?”

“All of it. The city, the studio, the mini-Ikea showroom you have in here?”

Zayn smirks. “I do, yeah. Next step is the job but I’m happy so far. Really happy.”

Harry stares at him and then grins a moment too late. It’s a little off. “Good,” he says, sounding normal as ever. “I’m really glad you do.” He swallows and then, “Sometimes, I worry about people leaving everything for New York. Like, I spend my life convincing people to do it and then I don’t ever see them again.” He shrugs, “I don’t know, I just wonder if they’re all happy sometimes.”

“I’m sure there are some who aren’t,” Zayn says.

He laughs at the shock reading across Harry’s face.

“What? That’s honest. Not everyone you meet will always be happy and all of the happy one’s wont stay that way. We all put on an act.”

Harry studies him for a beat before speaking, “Not you.”

“Not me, what?” The studio glows, amplified by the darkness outside as if there is something fragile in the space they share right now.

“You were the same,” Harry says. “From the day I met you to how you are right now.”

“Maybe I’m better at hiding it than anyone else,” he says cryptically. Truth be known, he hasn’t got a thing to hide save for a sharp tongue and a slippery trigger finger that gets him in trouble too often.

Harry smiles, close lipped. “Maybe.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m happy you’re happy. Now I’ll leave you alone.”

Zayn’s quick to jump, heart jolting. “You don’t have to leave me alone. I like you, you know. It’s not like a hardship to hang out with you.”

Harry laughs as he picks up his bag of clothes he’d changed from earlier and puts it over his shoulder, “I just meant I’ll leave you alone for tonight but thanks for that vote of confidence.”

Zayn’s cheeks flush and he wonders if Harry intentionally worded it open-ended, if he likes to see people jump when he says go, beg him to stay. “Well, I’ll just be in my miniature Ikea-showroom then,” he says, recovering and following Harry to the door.

Harry laughs, loud in the apartment and shakes his head. “Goodnight, Zayn.”

Zayn calls out goodnight after him as he shuts the door behind him, letting the new kind of silence of his place sink in.

...

Sunday morning, he’s awoken by a knock on his door--or a few to be honest. He gets out of his bed bleary eyed to pull the door open, noting the daylight outside but realizing too late he’s only in a pair of plaid pajama boxers.

A courier is standing just outside his apartment with a rather large wrapped package in his arms. “Delivery for you,” he says handing it over.

Zayn takes it before his mouth can form a thank you and then the guy is already heading back down the stairs. He calls it out after him but it may be too delayed to matter. He closes his door and sets the package down, black paper with tiny empire state buildings and taxicabs printed on it. There’s a card on top that he reaches for with a yawn. It folds open and he doesn’t recognize the writing away.

_Had to see if you already had one first. H._

Zayn smiles to himself and shakes his head, setting the card to the side. He undoes the wrapping carefully, laughing out loud when he sees what’s inside. He’s officially the owner of a Magic Bullet courtesy of one, Harry Styles.

…

The office on Monday is a whirlwind of activity, less because Zayn is starting and more because of the time of year, fall fashion spreads to triple check and finalize plus laying out plans for next spring already.

Zayn didn’t have trouble with the subway that morning even having time to get coffee before he came into Verve and then call his mum as he walked. Max’s assistant, Kia, met him at the front and showed him to his office, took him through a Human Resources spiel and set up his computer. He almost started laughing when they handed him a second iPhone to use for work, a double of Harry Styles in the making.

His office is much bigger than the one he had in London and the ceiling definitely doesn’t leak. There’s a conference table in one corner and a desk with two computer screens, big windows and white walls, light brown floors and a myriad of half dead potted plants on the windowsill. Those, he decides rather quickly, will need to go. His desk is full of things the last person left behind, chewed on pens and dried out highlighters. He chucks most of the stuff into his trash, leaving a few pens behind and a weirdly large amount of paper clips.

Once the logistics are complete, Zayn has time to dive into his accounts, the half laid plans of his predecessor.

“Do what you can,” Max says when he stops by in the middle of the morning. “No one expects you to be completely caught up in one day.”

Zayn barely nods, laying out the folders, swatches, and design boards he’s been left. No one has told him why he person before him quit but it seems he left everything in pieces, question marks after every sentence on one of the treatments for a shoot with Vince Camuto. It’s nothing short of a mess.

His coffee goes cold on his desk as he works, putting together to do lists and priorities, his e-mail inundated with meeting requests he accepts as quickly as they come in, his Outlook filling up quickly into rainbow blocks of presentations and concept reviews and photo shoots and shows.

Around lunch he starts to get hungry though he can’t quite get himself to step away from his computer where he’s started a mock up of a design he’s thinking of for a pastel Versace line, a vampire-inspired wedding of sorts. He foregoes getting food to call down to one of the design rooms and has paint sent up so he can mix together different shades of red to make a glitter blood prototype. He puts each shade on a board, numbering them and throwing some away as soon as they dry but entranced in the process nonetheless.

He doesn’t notice anyone even near his doorway until he hears a voice he doesn’t recognize saying, “He’s right in here.”

He looks up in time to see Harry coming in, a leopard print jacket with sunglasses pushing back his hair, chewing a piece of gum but still smiling with his hands hidden behind his back. Zayn sets down his brush, giving his blood swatch board a chance to dry.

“What are you doing here?” He asks unable to stop his smile as Harry smirks mid-chew.

“Brought you a fruit bouquet,” Harry says as he comes up to Zayn’s desk, procuring the bouquet from behind his back. He sets it down so Zayn can see the cantaloupe pieces cut in the shape of flowers with grapes for the centers, rows of strawberries and pineapple pieces and skewers of blueberries.

“You brought me a fruit bouquet.” Zayn reaches out to turn it around, slightly in disbelief.

“For your first day,” he says.

“And you got me a Magic Bullet?” Zayn had called Harry the day before to thank him, but he doesn’t want to start a trend of accepting gifts from Harry; Even if he’s convince Harry actually wants to be friends, it’s the principle of it all he doesn’t like--being offered a job and then bought by a recruiter.

“Technically, the fruit bouquet is from the agency,” he says and Zayn relaxes a bit. “Usually we don’t hand deliver them.” He gestures at Zayn’s swatch board of sparkly reds, “I was curious to see what you were up to. Arts and crafts are always good.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and wipes his hands on one of the paper towels he’d gotten after his first spill. “It’s glitter blood.”

“Ah, of course.” Harry nods knowingly and it makes Zayn laugh.

“I’m trying to get concepts together to present next week and this one is a vampire type thing. Vampire wedding, I think.”

Harry makes an approving sound, grabbing a chair and pulling it up. Zayn takes one of the skewers out of the fruit bouquet and pulls off a blueberry as Harry watches.

“Am I allowed to eat this?”

“I would hope so,” Harry says. He plucks a strawberry from the bouquet and bites it, “Seems okay to me.”

“You don’t regularly eat fruit bouquets?” Zayn asks in mock disbelief. “I would have never guessed.”

Harry takes a blueberry as Zayn eats from his own skewer. “At home I try to make the fruit into designs before I eat it, like a pretty platter.” He shrugs, “Usually I don’t have the patience and eat it before it resembles anything that pretty though.”

“Thought that counts and all that,” Zayn says.

Harry nods. “How’s the first day, then?”

“Eh, middle of the road, I’d say.” He laughs when Harry stares at him. “It’s really good, Harry. Whoever was in this position has left a complete mess but it’s exactly what I thought it would be -- all roses and glitter blood, you know.”

“Just as I suspected,” Harry says. He reaches out then and touches one of the glitter blood squares as Zayn watches. “Oh shit.” He pulls back his finger, red from the wet paint. Curiosity and the cat and whatever.

“Really?” Zayn grabs for the towel and hands it to him shaking his head. Harry smiles, sheepish almost. “How was your day? Lots of schmoozing in your fancy leopard print jacket?”

“None, actually.” Harry points at his jacket, “I love this coat by the way so, don’t be a hater.”

Zayn’s lips twitch into a smile, “Rawr.”

Harry flips him off. “Today was a research day. My next client doesn’t land until tomorrow.”

“Research?” Zayn tries to picture it but he can’t quite. “What do you do, social media stalk?”

“A little. You know, I feel weird letting you in on my secrets. You’re supposed to think I’m all charismatic and charming.” He doesn’t give Zayn a chance to respond and tell him that ship has already sailed, before continuing, “I’m recruiting for a publishing house this time so I’m brushing up on literature knowledge.”

“What, like SparkNotes?”

“I was at the public library, actually.” His pride in that fact seeps right into his voice.

Zayn visualizes Harry in his cheetah jacket thumbing through well-loved books and it makes him smile, biting his lip. “Just catching up on the classics then?”

Harry drops his gaze and mumbles something Zayn can’t catch.

“What was that?” He leans closer.

Harry clears his throat, “I read the endings of some of the books I haven’t read yet.”

Zayn gapes out of shock. “Just the endings?”

“I’m not proud of it,” he says, “But there are only so many hours in a day.”

“No one writes a book for someone to just read the ending,” Zayn says incredulously. He pinches a cantaloupe flower between his fingers and pulls it from the fruit bouquet before biting into it.

“I meant to brush up on a couple of them yesterday but I got caught up in another book and forgot.”

“Another book?” He hadn’t pegged Harry for a casual Sunday afternoon reader.

“Girl on The Train,” he says. “My sister told me to read it without mentioning I would be hooked and unable to move from the couch for the rest of the afternoon.”

Zayn hasn’t read it so he can’t really comment. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and your client will love that book instead.”

“Yeah, except on Twitter she said, quote unquote, ‘Modern writing is an abomination to literature and shouldn’t even be referred to as such’.”

Zayn whistles, low in his throat. “Yikes.”

“Love a good book snob,” he says sweetly. “Anyway, tell me more about this blood situation. I’m intrigued.”

...

Zayn ventures out into the city in search of lunch later in the week, wandering up and down some of the side streets. He has a list of recommendations from people in the office but he conveniently left that list sitting on his desk in his rush to actually leave his desk and eat something this time.

He starts to recognize some of the streets and he stops, trying to figure out why. It’s then he notices the building across the way, Harry’s office. Without really thinking about it, he takes out his phone and calls Harry’s phone.

“Weird question,” he says once Harry answers, “Are you in your office? And have you eaten lunch?”

There’s a prolonged pause. “Yes I am and no not yet. Why?”

Zayn laughs, “Come outside.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. And stop sounding so suspicious about it, like you’re in an episode of Law and Order or something.”

Harry hangs up on him but he emerges out of the front doors a moment later, wearing a shirt with blue tigers this time that, somehow, brings out his eyes. Zayn holds his hands out to the side and calls across the street, “Surprise. I got lost and found you instead.”

He watches as Harry smiles and then looks both ways before crossing the street and comes closer. “Do you like sandwiches? There’s a really good place around the corner.”

And so it goes.

Without having to try or even think about it, Zayn falls into his life in New York and an easy friendship with Harry, one he wouldn’t have imagined for himself merely weeks before.

He gets used to never having enough time in the day for projects and working odd hours into the night most of the time. He also figures out that everyone needs him when he’s in the office but he can usually sneak in a quiet couple of hours to himself if he comes in early -- for once in his life he’s an early riser and he hardly ever complains, though he doesn’t have any proper interactions with people to test that out fully.

The office is bigger than he thought, incorporating two off site studios and three floors of people -- he doesn’t learn their names but he has a detailed directory and a labeled map of each office that makes it seem like he does. People seem to like him, his work style, and his ideas. Rarely does anyone second guess what he says which actually makes him more nervous than if he had pushback; Of course when the pushback comes in his second week, he has a nervous breakdown and starts to wonder if anyone actually likes what he’s doing or just goes with it. He’s usually able to tell himself to get it together before it unravels too far.

It takes only a couple of weeks for him to realize there is a party, a show, a gala, a fashion review or launch, almost every night of the week. It takes a bit longer, after he runs himself into the ground trying to show his face at each, to realize he doesn’t actually need to always be in attendance.

He runs into Leeso, Niall’s friend from the humane society in Brooklyn, at a gala in support of not wearing animals and she laughs when he tells her what else he’s gone to that week. “Babe, if you chase every party in this town you’ll end up without your liver and jaded as all hell. Make yourself scarce and then people fall over themselves when they see you.” Then she’d given him a bit of an up down with her eyes, “But I’m sure you’re used to that.”

Harry is a master in the art of making himself scarce -- at least when it comes to things like galas and fashion shows. Zayn rarely sees him at work events and on the off chance that he does, then he barely sticks around for longer than a drink or two, smoothing over groups of people that all seem to know him intimately by the way they watch and cling on to him. Sometimes Zayn gets the feeling people feel lucky to list Harry among their friends but if Harry were to ever share his list of pals, they wouldn’t be on it.

Outside of the events that come with extravagant invitations, Zayn and Harry get lunch together and stop by the same happy hours after work, meeting up with Niall or Louis and sometimes just going by themselves. Zayn runs into Harry grocery shopping (simply wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, blending right into the crowd unlike Zayn’s imaginary Harry) and then Harry meets him on a Tuesday morning for coffee before they go to work, and so on.

He always asks Zayn about his projects and Zayn is starting to get a certain thirst for hearing Harry’s work stories. As much as Zayn has given him a hard time about what he does, he doesn’t get tired of hearing Harry recount trips to Ellis Island or how a girl kissed him on the cheek and lingered for too long to be professional after drinks one night.  For the most part, Harry just seems happy to have someone listen to him.

Zayn likes to go to Louis’ bar on quiet nights when there aren’t as many people and they can all have a drink and still hear each other speak. As spring gives way to summer, the rooftops open at every bar and restaurant and Zayn has to up his allergy medication but he likes those nights too.

Niall, he finds, always has a different group of friends when they meet up with him but they all seem to be, like him, kind and easy to talk to -- ready for a laugh too.

“He knows everyone,” Harry says when they both show up at Niall’s apartment one night for a dinner party.

Niall has a lot of dinner parties and Zayn, Harry, and Louis seem to be the only constants. At the end of the day, Zayn is pretty sure that half of his network is comprised of people who know Niall as well.

Dinner parties from other people are in no short order either. Zayn goes to some for work, under the vise of creative sessions; invited to sprawling apartments for wine and some sort of expensive cheese. He likes to think of it as more of a tour of the housing market, the places he can’t quite afford, and the ones he can add to his list of dream homes.

Within a couple of months, Zayn knows more faces and names than he thought he ever would and showing up to parties or shows alone doesn’t scare him as much. He knows, eventually, he’ll find a familiar face. Along with that, he slowly realizes the difficulty in figuring out who is genuine and who is waiting to name-drop someone significant at the first pause of conversation.

One dinner in particular, Zayn finds himself in the middle of a pissing contest with an account executive at a PR firm, getting increasingly heated until he excuses himself and steps away, unsure how it escalated in the first place. Those are the moments he understands that mask Harry had in the beginning, the one he still has from time to time. There’s no point in showing someone the best parts, the most genuine, if they only want to store them away in their minds to spit out later in a different conversation when they need to -- if knowing the new creative director at Verve ever becomes a relevant conversation topic.

The night he gets into the heated almost-argument with the PR guy about who has produced more campaigns, Zayn leaves shortly after and calls Harry to see where he is instead. He’s finishing a client dinner so Zayn takes a cab to meet him and they go to a place with specialty martinis and mirrored walls that kind of gives Zayn vertigo.

Harry becomes Zayn’s home base when he needs to get away from everyone else. Zayn knows doesn’t need to impress him and whenever Harry mocks him he doesn’t feel it personally, feels free to dish it right back. It’s easy to be his friend, even as they run in different circles that marginally intersect.

There’s still times he feels like he doesn’t know Harry at all, when they see someone he recognizes while they’re out and Harry slips back into Harry Styles, flirtatious and borderline indulgent. People fall quickly into Harry’s trap when he asks how they are and then follows up with some obscure, personal question about their job, girlfriend, mother, or child he’s carefully stored to use for this perfect pause in conversation. He never introduces Zayn to these people and Zayn isn’t particularly bothered, has no reason to be. As quickly as it all comes though, the rush of Harry Styles, Executive Recruiter, it disappears. Harry will turn back to him and tell him how he burnt himself making a pot roast or that he spilt coffee on his white jeans the day before.

Of course it’s not all glitter blood and roses as Zayn had told Harry on his first day. His ideas get shut down at work, more often than he’d like to admit. He gets lost on the subway from time to time and he locks himself out of his apartment when he goes out to get the mail one night. Sometimes he ignores phone calls from Harry or Niall in favor of lying in bed and contemplating how many wrong decisions he’s made in his life, whether any of them have ever been right.

He spends a lot of time alone, some of it not by choice. Harry falls off the map every once in awhile, and for a few days at a time he becomes unresponsive. Zayn’s sure it has to do with his clients and the fact his job doesn’t quite meet the normal eight to five requirement. The times Harry doesn’t answer though, Zayn feels an unexpected dark cloud in the pit of his stomach, like he’s a burden Harry wants to brush off, the one client who is still like a monkey on his back. Somewhere in the corner of the mind is the vague itch to figure out why it bothers him--why he doesn’t feel as heart sore when Niall or Louis blow him off nor one of the guys from work. It comes back to Harry again and again, the one who somehow can hurt him most.

But then, like everything else, it will pass. Harry will call without mentioning the past few days and they’ll go to dinner or grab drinks, attend another one of the showcases Harry took Zayn to with the diary reading. Louis and Niall adamantly turn down any invitation to those but Harry still asks Zayn so he always says yes. He remembers what Harry said about liking to do some stuff alone, he likes to be the person Harry thinks of when he doesn’t want to be.

…

Zayn has been at Verve, in New York, for almost two months when he has the day at work he knew would come eventually -- the one where everything goes wrong.

In the morning, his holiday shoot idea is thrown out completely without even one vote from the rest of the team. It’s not unheard of to get ideas passed over but when no one likes the concept and he’s supposed to be one of the leaders of the direction of the whole thing, it stings.

Later that afternoon when he’s in the break room, he hears the worst of it--two unfamiliar voices calling him young and inexperienced, a pretty face and international to boot. As if being from London makes him more desirable to tout as a creative director than someone who grew up in Los Angeles or Chicago.

“I don’t know who he fucked to get in here but it must have been good,” is the last thing Zayn hears before he ducks behind one of the vending machines and the voices fade completely. More than anything else, the feeling that his own team is against him makes his ego fold into a ball around him, his chest ache a bit as he wonders why he is there after all.

Leaving work that night, he doesn’t stop to chat as he usually does, doesn’t pause in other offices to say goodnight or whatever it is that builds the friendships he’s been working so hard on, he just leaves.

He gets midway into calling Liam before he remembers it’s late at home so he ends the call quickly, sending a text that he’ll call him in the daylight hours tomorrow instead. Then, as has become his new normal, he calls Harry.

Harry answers after three rings, panting. Zayn has the sudden and terrible feeling he’s caught him in the middle of something involving someone else who is definitely not Zayn.

“What’s wrong?” Zayn asks once he answers, forgetting he’s the one calling with the problem.

“What?” Harry gasps, “Nothing’s wrong. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” It’s an automatic answer. “Why do you sound like you’re running from the cops?”

Harry’s breathing slows though Zayn can hear it across the line still. “I’m finishing yoga,” he says. Zayn should have guessed.

“Oh.”

“Is that why you called? To interrupt my yoga? You know I take this very seriously.”

Zayn can hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I know how you are with you Tai Chi.”

“PiYo.”

“Sure.” Zayn pauses when Harry laughs. “Listen, I was just wondering if you were busy or you’d want to like, go out.”

“I actually started dinner before my workout so it will be done soon and then I was going to watch Dateline. It’s my only free night this week.”

It takes a lot for Zayn not to just stop in the middle of the street and drop his phone to let it shatter on the dirty pavement. This day is the worst. “Oh, sure. No problem, then.”

Harry starts laughing and Zayn nearly hangs up not wanting to listen to Harry capitalize on his emotional pain with a joke right now. ”Zayn, do you want to come over for dinner? I didn’t mean that I didn’t want you to come just that I was telling you my plan for the night.”

“Oh.” Zayn’s vocabulary has been paired down to essential words today, _Oh_ being one of them.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” Harry says. He promises to send Zayn his address and leave the door open just in case he’s still in the middle of his workout by the time he comes.

Zayn heads for the subway before he even gets the text, already trying to imagine what Harry’s place will look like. He feels like he’s going to see Batman’s lair or something equally dramatic. He’s imagined the big windows and the fancy armchair where Harry sits with his silk robe already and he thinks he might be most let down to find out either those things truly don’t exist.

He let’s his mind drift from his day at the office as he builds up Harry’s apartment in his mind. By the time he’s getting off at the correct stop, he’s sure Harry has a penthouse and an exotic longhaired cat with a private workout room. When he comes up to a seemingly ordinary brownstone building he checks the address again. There is a small cafe, a pub and a bookstore along the block from what Zayn can see, one small outlet of the big city. The front doors are silver, the revolving ones that always make Zayn scared he’s going to get stuck between them. He holds his breath as he walks through.

“Good evening.” There’s an older man inside the doors with a nice dark blue suit and a hat with gold on the rim. He smiles at Zayn.

“Hello,” he says, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. “I’m here to see Harry, uh Harry Styles.”

“You are Mr. Malik I presume?” Zayn nods. “I’m Charlie,” he says offering his hand Zayn takes it. “Harry called to tell me you would be coming by.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Zayn says. Maybe the apartment is more posh than he thought on first glance.

Charlie gestures towards the elevator, “You’re free to go up. Mr. Styles is on the top floor.”

Zayn doesn’t say that was what he had guessed just thanks him and heads for the elevator. The inside of the elevator is mirrored on each side and suddenly there’s multiple of Zayn staring back at him. He chooses to focus on the numbers counting up to the twelfth floor instead. The door pings open at the top and Zayn steps out to an ordinary hallway--so the top floor penthouse is already a no, then.

He checks his phone again looking for the right door and finding it among the rest of them, sleek and black with gold handles. It’s halfway cracked open so Zayn pushes it the rest of the way.

Inside, it’s all dark wood floors and higher ceilings than Zayn had expected from the hallway, windows along the far wall framed in black against exposed brick.

Zayn notices the brick before he notices Harry, which is a feat considering when he does spot him he’s twisted up like a half-baked pretzel in the middle of the floor. He’s arched into a backbend with one hand on the ground, the other reaching up to the sky though Zayn’s not sure how gravity can possibly help him hold that pose. He freezes, too scared to say anything lest he shake his concentration and end up with a broken yogi on the ground.

The television on the wall is whisper thin and Harry’s had to make room for himself by pushing back a grey couch and a lighter wood coffee table. Gracefully, almost, Harry curves back around into what Zayn can identify as downward dog on top of his light pink yoga mat. He’s been to at least one beginner’s yoga class in his time. Still, this looks like something that would break him in half easily.

He clears his throat once he feels comfortable that Harry won’t go falling over. “Hey,” he says, closing the door behind himself.

Harry stands up, face flushed and shining but smiling when he sees Zayn. He’s in a grey t-shirt and workout shorts, short enough Zayn can see a splash of ink against the front of his thigh though he can’t make out the shape.

“Perfect timing,” Harry says gesturing towards the television. The credits are running on the flat screen and Zayn feels slightly let down he didn’t get to see the Chalene Harry always talks about.

“I just have to shower.” He motions vaguely around the space, “Do whatever. Maybe check the oven and make sure nothing is burning?” Then he pads off towards the back of the apartment, his bare feet sticking to the floor.

Zayn notices the smaller details when he hears Harry’s shower turn on and he walks more fully into the space. Things like the soft wool blanket on the back of the couch and colorful art on the walls, a pair of black boots lined up by the door. There is no floor to ceiling wall of windows and Harry’s one recliner doesn’t face towards anything but a wall so Zayn fears his imaginary impressions are fated to fade once more.

He heads for the kitchen, in the far corner with stainless steel appliances, passing by a desk that’s completely spotless of anything except for a MacBook closed right in the middle. It’s clean and precise the way Harry is. Not a thing out of place but the things he’s left there intentionally.

Nothing is burning in the kitchen but Zayn finds the source of what he smelled originally - lasagna baking in the oven. There’s a pre-made salad kit sitting out on the counter so Zayn sets to putting it together rather than be caught standing around or worse, snooping. Not that there’s much to snoop, Harry barely has anything in his apartment, but Zayn’s got an irrational desire to see Harry’s bedroom, to see if it’s as clean and put together as everything else in his life. He imagines being caught standing in there might get him a one-way ticket back on the subway for the night. So, preparing the salad it is.

He doesn’t acknowledge the flashing red light in his brain that tells him he really shouldn’t wonder about Harry Styles’ bedroom. They’re friends and nothing more -- developing a crush this late in the game is definitely not allowed.

Harry comes out a short while later; his hair half dry and ruffled, grey sweats and a white shirt smelling like lavender.

“I made the salad,” Zayn says, lifting the bowl of lettuce, like a cat with a dead mouse. He’d technically had to snoop and open a lot of drawers and cupboards to find a big enough bowl to toss it but Harry doesn’t seem suspicious.

“Nice.” Harry smiles. He crosses his ankles and leans back against one of the cupboards, “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Zayn’s go to answer slips out. “You?”

Harry’s lips turn down and he rubs a hand over his forehead before crossing his arms. “I had a client walk out today. It was only the first day too. Which is why I have tonight free, actually.”

“Shit.” Zayn doesn’t want to offer sympathy because that’s the last thing he wants after a day like today, a day Harry evidently has shared.

“Shit is right,” Harry says laughing. “Now, I have to do like, office work until my next client comes. Unless I get a special project.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“And that would be?”

“If someone is having a hard time connecting with someone, they send me.”

“Oh god,” Zayn groans, “VIP schmoozing.”

Harry winks at him, “Only the best.” He starts laughing before his line can truly hit its mark. Zayn likes it better that way. “Do you like basil?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Zayn takes the ball out of left field with only minor hesitation.

Harry nods. “I have some in the garden and I think it’s just now ready.”

That gives Zayn more pause than the question about basil. “You have a garden?”

“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t stop to explain away Zayn’s confusion. “I’ve been waiting for some good days of sun to get it all the way ready.” He holds up a finger to tell Zayn to wait, still talking as he goes back in the direction of where his room must be. “I’ve also got cucumbers coming in and I planted a pumpkin because I thought that would be fun for fall.”

Zayn stares after him, raising his voice to be heard, “Fun. Yeah. You can call me stupid but where exactly are you keeping your garden?”

Harry comes back with a grey sweatshirt and Nike sliders on. “The roof.” He points upwards. Zayn gestures as if to let Harry lead the way following him back to the front door.

Out in the hallway, Harry takes a key from his pocket at the door a few down from his own, unlocking a stairwell, which Zayn follows him up in. Two flights of stairs later and they’re on top of the roof, filled with a wooden grid of dirt plots, some more heavily flourishing than others. Harry leads Zayn towards one in the middle of the second row.

“Ta-da,” he says, wiggling his fingers towards the dirt and plants in front of him. “My garden.”

The plants are green and the dirt is dark with moisture, little tags with the names of each plant stuck near their bases. Zayn watches in slight awe as Harry squats down to the one with a “BASIL” tag, the name printed in all block letters.

He pulls off one of the leaves and presses it to his nose before lifting it up to Zayn, “Smells ready, yeah?”

Zayn takes an obligatory sniff of the leaf before half-smiling. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Harry plucks a few more leaves while he laughs before standing up, “Me neither. I just thought that sounded right. Like, if it smells good it’s ready to go.”

 _Who are you?_ It almost slips out but instead Zayn nods, “Sounds like a good theory to me.”

As they’re going back inside Harry pauses at another plot, one with vines and peapods. “This lady always complains that the sun hits too directly on her plants,” he sighs, “I’m always like, Elsie, you are literally planting your shit on a roof what do you expect to happen?”

“And I bet Elsie just backs the fuck up, huh?” Zayn laughs when Harry shoves him, follows him back into the stairwell and down to his apartment.

They eat dinner at Harry’s counter, off of matching plates, while talking about the people in Harry’s building, besides Elsie, and the ones Zayn has met in his own building though the numbers are slim in comparison, as he doesn’t linger in the hallways. Zayn gives Harry a hard time for having a doorman and Harry rolls his eyes, says that Charlie is the nicest man he knows.

Zayn’s mind slips from his workday completely as they eat, the lasagna extra cheesy and warm. The fresh basil on top isn’t noticeable but Zayn doesn’t mention it. Harry swears he made it all from scratch, save for the noodles, and Zayn has a hard time believing him. Then, he recites the recipe out loud as if that proves the point.

“What even is that?” Zayn laughs, accusing Harry by pointing his fork at him. “If I recite the periodic table does that make me a chemist?”

Harry pauses as if considering. “I mean, yeah, probably. Who else would have the periodic table memorized?”

Zayn ignores him in favor of drinking his wine, a smooth red Harry retrieved from a cupboard housing much more wine than any single man needs in his home at once.

“So, what’s up?” Harry asks over the clink of Zayn’s glass being set back on the counter. Zayn raises his eyebrows and Harry clarifies, “With like coming over and everything.”

Zayn looks back at his plate, making a perfectly square cut of lasagna with his fork. “Nothing.” He regrets it the moment he says it, the defensiveness in his tone, the way he sound like he’s hiding from his mum.

“Okay.” Harry doesn’t push him further, unlike his mum. But Harry’s not his mum at all, though, so the comparison is null.

They eat quietly and Zayn realizes that while he doesn’t worry about impressing Harry he still doesn’t want to admit his short fallings to him, to the guy who always has it all together. And at what cost -- to boil up the day in his stomach and let it run rampant in his mind. Harry’s not too proud to do it, admitting someone walked out on him. Zayn pokes at his lasagna.

“What do you do if someone questions the choice they’ve made?”

Harry jolts, almost as if Zayn actually speaking is a surprise. “Well, I don’t offer refunds.”

That gets Zayn to laugh albeit sarcastically.

“Are you inquiring or is this hypothetical?” Harry’s plate is scraped clean and Zayn can hardly keep up though he didn’t work out so it’s a valid disparity.

“I just had a shit day,” Zayn says, “And doesn’t that always make you question everything?”

Harry hums, “You mean look into flights back home before remembering this is what you chose? Make your bed and sleep in it and all that?”

Zayn is caught off guard trying to imagine Harry feeling the way he does now when he usually laughs things off so easily -- definitely not the type to try and run away. “Yeah, that. And try to figure out how people still have the capability of making me feel like I’m fifteen again.”

“My mum would tell you it’s because they’re jealous and to keep your head up. I’ve learned that a lot of people are just assholes in this city and in the industry. You kind of can’t trust anyone until they give you a reason to. And even then,” he shrugs, “everyone will let you down.”

“How do you stand it?”

Harry sets his fork down and Zayn watches him wad his napkin up in his lap. “Eventually, you learn to expect it,” he says. There’s a pause before he continues. “Eventually, you just start believing everyone is out to get you in some way.”

Zayn’s laughter comes in a huff. “And the one’s who aren’t?” He thinks of Niall and Louis, of Harry’s friend Jeff -- surely he doesn’t view them that way.

“Time isn’t definite, there’s always the chance they still are.” Zayn nearly blanches but Harry smirks like maybe he’s made it out worse than it is. He doesn’t clarify.

“Well, on that note,” Zayn lifts his glass towards Harry. “Cheers.”

Harry laughs and reaches for his glass, “You learn soon enough. Everyone does. Though, I think I may have been one of the slower ones.”

…

July spins through slowly bringing with it a heat wave and a muggy haze. It’s too hot to be inside and too sticky to be outside for long leaving most people to flee from the city to the Hamptons and their summer houses. Zayn can’t escape -- barely able to afford the one place he’s got. Luckily, his friends can’t either.

Niall calls him in the early afternoon on a Thursday and tells him to come survive the heat at 28 with drinks as it hasn’t opened yet and Louis has already given up on financial analysis for the day. Zayn leaves work easily, barely putting away his swatch boards. His review meeting had been empty that morning and the halls are eerily quiet as if everyone has taken a sick day.

He isn’t entirely surprised to already see Harry stretched out on one of the loungers when he walks onto the patio but the sight isn't an unwelcome one. Of course, Harry is in a pastel geometric suit and Zayn has to give him a hard time about it, barely able to keep his own button up shirt on in the heat as it is. Then, Louis gives them all vodka lemonades and he let Harry continue on in his pastel glory.

Turns out, Zayn’s fear of having a crush on Harry has only amplified in the couple of weeks since the night in his apartment, especially with the twitch of annoyed affection he feels for Harry and his stupid suit. He notes that his eyes linger over Harry’s curls splayed over the edge of the lounger and that he notices the tops of Harry’s cheeks are pink from the sun. None of it is harmful, Zayn doesn’t think, as long as he doesn’t act on it.

“It’s not like _we’re_ fleeing the city,” Harry says when Zayn complains about how empty his office has been.

“That’s just the people who can’t get their good Instagram shot on the Hudson, need the ocean in the background and a Kennedy nearby,” Louis says from where he’s laying on one of the couches, barefoot and with his shirt partially pulled up his chest, sure to make an awkward tan line.

“I could do with a Kennedy nearby me, on me, whichever,” Harry says. He’s moved his lounger under one of the big striped umbrellas, which he says is to protect his skin though all three of them say it’s an excuse not to have to concede and take his damn suit jacket off.

Zayn and Louis laugh sardonically and Niall leans over to give Harry a high five.

“I can’t promise Kennedy’s but there’s a concert in Central Park tonight and fireworks after,” Niall says. “The whole shebang.”

Zayn knows what’s coming before Harry says, “Literally.” Then he and Niall are laughing, Harry cackling so hard he goes silent in the way only Niall can seem to get him to.

“Thank god Harry found you, Zayn,” Louis says as Niall and Harry dissolve into laughter again over something else Harry says. “I was getting tired of being the only sane one around these two.”

Zayn smiles but he also knows Louis has a way of masking his adoration for both of them.

“I can’t go,” Louis says to the group, “I run a bar.”

Zayn smiles and tilts his head, “Do you? Have I heard of it?” Louis flips him the bird. Their friendship has been coming along nicely.

“Harry, you gotta come,” Niall says. “Please.”

Harry chases the straw floating in his drink with his mouth. “Love a concert in the park,” he says, biting on the straw once he catches it.

Zayn remembers their day in Central Park in the spring, how he assumed Harry wouldn’t be caught dead at a concert in the park even as he droned on about them. Sitting on the other side of getting to know him, here and now, it doesn’t seem all that surprising after all.

“Zayno will you come?” Niall points at him with his drink, grinning.

Only three months in and Zayn’s pretty sure nobody can say no to Niall’s smile. “Yeah, I’ll go. One condition, though.” They all look up, Harry still sucking his drink. “Harry cannot wear anything pastel including that suit.” Louis and Niall laugh and Harry just stares at him. It’s almost intimidating until Harry forgets to swallow what’s already in his mouth and dribbles the drink down his chin.

…

Zayn meets Harry on the edge of Central Park rather than trying to find him and Niall in the crowd. He sees Harry skirting through a group of people in a t-shirt and jeans, the dark blue shirt a good match for his complexion and his eyes once he gets closer after spotting Zayn. He has his phone in one hand and gestures towards Zayn with it to get him to follow.

He leads him to a large group of people spread out on blankets, Niall standing up in the middle of all of them. One vague sweep of his eyes and Zayn sees he doesn’t recognize anyone else, guys in Ray Bans and girls with cut off overalls and rompers. As with most events in the city, the concert in the park isn’t just that, it’s a chance to be seen but who you’re seen with and the quality of your Instagram shot at the end will makes all the difference. Zayn shouldn’t be surprised nor should he have expected the group to be just the three of them especially with Niall as the event planner.

“Zayno!” Niall yells with his arms out wide making part of the group look over as well. He tries to point out and name everyone around him though Zayn hasn’t got much hope of trying to memorize even half of it.

Harry must see the mild anguish on Zayn’s face because he scrunches his lips together and gives Niall the universal sign of stop by drawing a line across his neck. Niall does and finishes with, “Everyone this is Zayn,” instead.

“Jeff is here,” Harry says as Zayn waves around generally. He walks over to the far edge of the group and Zayn follows, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Zayn recognizes the guy from the first gala as he stands from the ground and offers his hand, “Zayn, it’s great to finally meet you.”

“You already met him at the spring line thing,” Harry says.

Jeff drops Zayn’s hand and glances at Harry, “Yeah, but I don’t usually like, pay attention to the people you introduce me to. It’s not like, you know.”

Zayn doesn’t follow and Harry shakes his head so he’s not sure he was supposed to anyway.

There’s the swell of a drum that cuts whatever is supposed to happen next and they have to yell over each other as the band comes on stage. Jeff says he is visiting for the weekend and he manages the band playing on stage.

“Jeff works in the music side of recruiting,” Harry tells Zayn, his voice lower than the music but lips pressed right up against Zayn’s ear. “Like, talent recruiting and then he manages the artists at the end of it all too.”

Zayn nods along. He can see how that fits with what Harry does, minus the part of managing the people he recruits at the end of it all. Jeff actually has to like the people he finds, Harry has to grin and bear it until they sign the contract.

“I’m going to get a beer,” Jeff says a moment later, pointing over his shoulder.

Harry reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet before handing Jeff a twenty. “Get me one?”

As with any group of people, a few girls near them hand over their own cash asking for beers as well. “I’ll go with you,” Zayn offers right as the band kicks into a song with a strong bass line so he motions at Jeff instead and then follows him out of the crowd.

The park is packed with people, all standing and swaying around to the music. Zayn’s never heard of the band, Halfswing, but he likes the style of indie and pop mixing together, something his sisters may listen to more than he would. Jeff circles out through a swarm of wine moms on the edge of the park, all of them catcalling him and Zayn and one, more adventurous woman, yelling out her phone number.

“Always reassuring when the drunk moms are after you,” Jeff says once they’ve made it through the crowd.

“Just the right ego boost,” Zayn agrees, laughing with him.

Jeff knows exactly where to go, heading straight for one of the beer gardens. “Do you come here often?” Zayn asks. It’s easier to talk out on the sidewalk though the music can definitely be heard for blocks in either direction.

“I went to college out here,” he says, “And now I bring my smaller acts out for summer concerts in Central Park. It’s good publicity with like, no pressure. A good start sometimes.”

“Sure.” Zayn’s not positive he could ever be comfortable in front of such a large group, judging or not. The thought makes the bottoms of his lungs itch and he clears his throat to make it stop.

“How do you like the new job? Harry says you’re a natural.”

Jeff smiles and Zayn pauses, wondering just how often Harry mentions him as if that’s what really matters in the moment.

“I wouldn’t say a natural but I enjoy the challenge,” Zayn says, gives his classically modest answer with a smile. Something about Jeff makes him pull deeper and add on, “I’m sure he didn’t mention the part where I came over to his place and downed half a bottle of wine over lasagna and the other half over an episode of Dateline because I had one bad day.”

Jeff laughs, not at all out of spite. “He said he cooked you dinner,” he says, “I had no idea how much wine was involved.”

They both laugh but Zayn’s mind races again at the idea of Harry talking about him. Not to mention, Harry hardly made him dinner, more like he made too much and Zayn was there to scoop up the leftovers. He doesn’t correct Jeff.

“He really likes you, you know.” Jeff is, evidently, a wealth of knowledge. “Don’t expect him to tell you himself, he likes to keep his cards close.” He laughs at that, like an inside joke with only himself. “Very close. But I’ve heard the way he talks about you and I think it’s good he has someone like you. A friend or whatever.”

“Harry’s great,” Zayn says, meaning it. “Except the terrible suits but what are you going to do?”

They laugh and Zayn decidedly ignores the ‘ _or whatever’_ part of Jeff’s last statement. He knows if he lingers over it too long, he’ll wonder what that means. There will be a part of his brain -- the part responsible for staring at Harry’s lips when he talks lately, and spiking his heart rate whenever he sees a call or text from him; the part that sends unsolicited wet dreams into a tailspin he can’t escape -- that reads too far into that statement and he doesn’t have the time or wherewithal to battle his own unrequited romantic feelings for the man who recruited him for a job.

They each balance three beers on the way back, liquid sloshing over their fingers and hands as they try to find a navigable route to the group. Zayn spots Niall first as he’s the only one jumping around like he’s at a rock show, grinning as wide as his mouth allows. They work around the edge back to where Harry is, the girls who threw their money at Jeff taking two of his beers and the one precariously balanced in the center of Zayn’s grip.

“This one is yours,” he says turning to Harry, “And I don’t apologize that half of it is on the ground and on my hands.”

“Thank you for getting it,” Harry says, leaning in so Zayn can hear him.

He reaches his hand for the plastic cup, sweaty in Zayn’s hand and for a moment they both just hold it, the tips of Harry’s fingers touching the tops of Zayn’s as they look at each other.

He wants to kiss him.

Zayn is startled by the realization that clouds into his mind in a hurry, seeping into every pore and curve and sending an unwarranted flush to his cheeks. Harry is looking at him, his mouth, like he wants it too. It’s the first time Zayn’s seen something akin to want on Harry’s features, not the smooth mask nor the more rare raw edges but something completely different. It’s almost eerie the way Zayn can pick up on it so quickly.

Everyone starts to applaud as the band finishes their song and Zayn let’s go of the beer so only Harry is holding it, drops his gaze as he wipes the condensation from his palm on the thigh of his jeans. He breaks the moment and as the next song starts, he’s no longer sure where they stand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	4. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The total number of chapters changed from 8 to 7. The story length is the same, I just combined a shorter update with a longer one towards the end to keep each update relatively the same size. 
> 
> Don't know, don't own, didn't happen -- happy reading :)

The first big gala of the summer comes two weeks after the concert in the park. It’s a party that, according to word around Verve, is nothing like any Zayn has been to yet. This one, like the others, is expected to be overflowing with money, drinks, and tiny pills pressed between palms. Zayn doesn’t partake in the pills, doesn’t see the exchanges happen with his eyes, but he knows it's in the air just like any other party on any other night – these ones are just more expensive. This gala, unlike the others, however, is more exclusive, invite only. It’s not for editors to bring their junior editors with them for a night out or designers to tag along with the executives. This time, to be invited you need to be someone in your own right.

That, really, only serves to make Zayn incredibly anxious. Lucas, one of the stylists for Verve, tells Zayn not to worry, the creative directors are always invited. The way he says _always_ makes Zayn feel like if he doesn’t end up invited it will only be a disgrace to the entire company. So, he feels the relief parallel to finding a date for the school dance when fifteen square boxes show up at the beginning of the week with invitations to the party of the summer inside and with his name on one of them.

“What is it?” Kris, a girl with purple hair who has easily become his closest friend at work, asks as soon as the box hits Zayn’s desk, pulling up a chair to get a better look.

He shrugs, as if he hadn’t panicked while waiting for it, and removes the tape from the edges of the box to find it overflowing with crimped blue paper and an inflatable pool ring the size of a donut. Inside the ring sits a stiff square card with the details for Maxim’s summertime gala—fittingly, pool themed.

“It doesn’t say if there’s a line to review or anything,” Zayn says, a bit out of his depth. He holds the box out so Kris can inspect it.

She looks up at him almost in sympathy. “Zayn, it’s not a review. It’s a fashion show for the industry. No runway but you can guarantee everyone will be looking like they should be on one. Last year, the recap was nuts. The theme was the desert and one model wore a dress legit made out of sand.”

Zayn tries to picture it and scrunches his nose.

“It was like that Sports Illustrated shoot where the models wear painted bikinis but it was sand. All up in there.”

The picture resonates in Zayn’s head and he winces.

“Yeah,” she agrees, “It was bad.”

“Well, I’ll be fully clothed with no sand in sight,” he says, smirking as though it may be everyone else’s loss.

“Obviously,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “That’d be fashion treason to repeat the same thing.”

“Obviously,” he deadpans.

Harry is, of course, invited as well. Zayn finds out over drinks a couple nights later as if it would be surprising anyway. Harry is part of the industry for work but he’s also a socialite in his own right-- showing up in the society pages and weirdly photographed if there happen to paparazzi anywhere near him. He’s like an elusive celebrity no one really knows considering his work isn’t public and he doesn’t do interviews. Personally, Zayn thinks Harry likes the intrigue. Niall, for his part, complains to both of them that he’s never invited to anything exciting except for holiday parties and those invites are just sent over e-mail.

“I’d be more than happy to give you my miniature pool float,” Zayn offers, smirking. It’s actually sitting on the kitchen counter in his apartment because he’s undecided if he should keep it or if the cool thing to do is throw it away.

Niall, instead of actually responding, knees Zayn dangerously close to his balls before cackling. “No thanks but you can buy me a drink for that instead.”

Harry calls Zayn at nearly five one morning to ask him what he’s planning to wear and through barely open eyes Zayn tells him that he hasn’t really thought about it before collapsing back against his pillow. Aghast, Harry tells him he’ll set up an appointment with Robyn, the stylist from the spring. Zayn tries to agree and thank him but falls back asleep instead.

The night of, Zayn admires the dark blue suit Robyn chose for him in the full-length mirror on the back of his door in the bathroom. She had laughed when he came to her studio after he left work for the day, telling her he was sure Harry had gone off the wall with the theme but that’s really not his style. The subtle patterning in the fabric of his suit could be taken for waves or at least that’s what he’s told himself in regards to sticking to the theme of the night. Waves, water, pool, good to go.

Verve has organized cars for each person going from the agency, which only makes Zayn feel a lot like he’s going to a prom a handful of years too late. Before he leaves his apartment, he makes sure he has a few extra business cards and cologne lightly spritzed over his suit. If nothing else, the fancy pool party serves as a networking event although the free alcohol never hurts either.

His driver is a man with clearly no intention of smiling even as Zayn asks all of the polite questions he always hears Harry ask strangers. Usually they open right up and treat Harry like he’s their oldest friend. Zayn doesn’t seem to have that same luck. Eventually, he gives up, relaxes back in his seat and tries not to bite the inside of his lip too much -- these things always make him unnecessarily nervous.

Maxim is holding their summertime bash at another art gallery that Zayn can see from down the street thanks to the flashing lights and mass of cars lining up out front. The closer the car gets, the more he can see the sprawling red carpet with a few people he doesn’t recognize already posing on it. It doesn’t seem natural to him and he’s not sure he’d ever be equipped to be on one, glancing at cameras and not blinking at every flashing lens.

There’s a young woman helping everyone out of their cars and pointing towards the front doors, a sweet smile offered to each of them. Zayn follows along with the crowd with his hands in his trouser pockets. Fashion has come out to play for the night and he stares unnecessarily long at a model in a dress made entirely of plastic donut pool floats getting progressively smaller as they go up her body. She seems to have trouble with the whole thing if her yelling at the intern trailing behind her, who has an air pump and a forced smile, is anything to go by.

Yet again, the guests are herded through the gallery without a chance to admire the art and out into a courtyard complete with bubbling fountains illuminated in a rainbow of colors with tiny beach balls bouncing down each tier and floating in the base. There are tropical lights surrounding the courtyard and at the far end Zayn can see a full swimming pool with inky, dark blue water. There’s no one swimming in it just the giant blow up animals that Zayn’s seen too much of on Instagram floating along serenely. In the dark and with no one lazing in them, they’re almost menacing. He thinks it would be rather interesting if someone decided to actually swim -- jumped in the pool without a second thought. Looking around at the statement dresses and suits, big hair and pore less faces, he can’t imagine any of these people will be the ones to take the leap. Literally.

He wanders towards the bar, always a safe bet to start with, only to be intercepted by a group he recognizes as friends of Niall and he slips in with them easily instead. These kinds of things are always better once he finds he’s not alone. Maya, one of the girls Zayn met at the concert in Central Park, gives him a light blue drink that is clearly an attempt to keep up with the theme.

“No paper umbrella?” He asks when she hands it over, smirking.

“That would be at an island party, Zayn. Not a pool party.” She rolls her eyes at him before winking. “Although we’re missing the distinct smell of sweat and sunscreen here so I guess it’s not matching the pool theme either, huh?”

“The whole thing is a lie.” He shakes his head and Maya laughs, leaning in to him a little closer.

She asks him about one of the campaigns he mentioned when they first met, proving she remembers him just like Zayn learned at all of his networking seminars at university. She’s pretty with warm brown skin and unruly black hair and a dimple in her smile. She smells like daisies and Zayn thinks he could ask her on a date, invite her to dinner at a restaurant he hasn’t been to and they could have a genuine conversation. He finds her funny and she clearly likes him, leaning in further as if she can’t hear him, fingertips against his hand when she laughs.

And, yet.

He can’t meet her eyes for more than a moment without scanning around the room for a face more familiar than any of the ones here. He promises himself it has nothing to do with the excited tightening of his stomach at the hope of seeing Harry and more to do with what outfit he’s going to be wearing when he shows up, who he’ll be with. Despite what he tells himself, it still has everything to do with Harry. Everything comes back to Harry.

Zayn can feel the conversation with Maya slipping as he glances around more frequently so he forcefully stops himself and asks, “You’re from where, again, Idaho?” He knows its Illinois, though they might as well be the same place considering his geography skills.

Maya takes the bait and keeps talking though she doesn’t touch his hand anymore and the air between them is suddenly a bit thicker.

Still, his eyes wander. Looking for that familiar face with green eyes.

He doesn’t expect it when it comes. As in, he has been looking for Harry and finds Louis instead. Shock registers slowly over him at first, to see Louis here of all places, but relief at finding an actual friend follows quickly after. Over Maya’s shoulder they make eye contact and Zayn waves slightly. Maya stops talking and raises her eyebrow at the distraction. Zayn’s cheeks go warm as he apologizes for being sidetracked.

“Just saw my mate, Louis,” he explains, gesturing where Louis is intricately winding through the groups of delicately dressed people. Louis is wearing a blue suit, like Zayn, clearly the spot on idea for a pool theme although strikingly uncreative considering what they’re up against. Zayn sees the girl with the stacked pool floats again even as he thinks it.

Maya gives him a close-lipped smile. “Excuse me a moment.”

Zayn feels bad for all of half a minute until he watches Maya cross behind Louis and into a girl walking right towards her. Mouth first into the girl behind Louis, technically. Zayn folds his ego at the edges and thanks all available deities he didn’t decide he was some kind of rock star and ask her on an unsolicited date. Clearly, he has trouble over reading into situations. As if that is news to him.

“What are you doing here?” He pushes Maya and her girlfriend from his mind as Louis comes up to him.

Louis rolls his eyes, “I was invited. Why is this such news to everyone I tell? I’m a budding entrepreneur, Zayn.”

“My apologies,” Zayn says, laughing. “And you went for the water inspired suit, I see.”

“As did you.” Louis nods at Zayn’s outfit. “Now, tell me, where is the bar in this place?”

Zayn points it out, the drinks coming easy and plenty from one side of the courtyard, no fancy umbrellas for anyone.

“Excellent.” Louis rubs his hands together. “You should really stay right here until I come back because I cannot do these things by myself. I get panicked and over share with strangers.” Zayn is still laughing as Louis presses past him towards the bar.

He fights the urge to take out his phone and cut off all interaction, instead looking around and offering a quick wave to the faces he recognizes, tentative smiles to those staring at him. He can’t be sure if the staring is a good thing or negative, considering he’s alone and barely dressed within the theme of the night. There are a lot of men in suits though they mostly have printed patterns on the fabric—ferns, waves, trees, beach balls—much like Harry’s preference in fashion. The women are in dresses for the most part, though there are a handful of bikinis and the token girl with the pool floats. She’s the most interesting person Zayn’s seen so far.

He’s still surveying the crowd when his eye catches over towards the entrance right as a few heads turn all at once. He squints trying to see what all of the commotion is in the front corner as people laugh together and a few people dash forward towards someone or something. He keeps watching as he takes a sip of his drink -- sweet but with the burn of vodka knocking against the back of his throat. The glass is still lifted to his lips as the crowd in the corner parts and then Zayn is staring right at Harry. Maybe it should be an omen, a sign, a warning, that everyone near Harry is staring at him, a couple of women coming towards him with cold smiles, an older man reaching out for his arm, and in all of that, his eyes find Zayn’s first.

Zayn doesn’t drop his gaze even as Harry smirks and comes closer, the crowd falling away once they realize his path is set.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, his voice carrying across the short distance between them.

Before Zayn gets a chance to respond, Louis arrives right in the middle of them, a light blue drink in each hand. “What the motherfuck are you wearing?”

Zayn comes back to himself, at least enough to glance past Harry’s face and see his outfit, what everyone must have been laughing at when he first walked in. It’s a red shirt and shorts combo -- matching tropical floral patterns on each as Zayn has come to expect from him. Still, this is a new level of matching printed pieces.

“This old thing?” Harry tugs at the bottom hem of his shirt. “It’s my pool party apparel.”

“I don’t know if I can be seen with you.” Louis takes a step backward and glances around like he’s checking to see if anyone’s watching.

“I like it for what it’s worth,” Zayn says and Harry smiles at him.

“For me?” He takes the second drink from Louis, “You shouldn’t have.”

“I really, really didn’t,” Louis says but letting Harry take the extra glass from his hand anyway.

“How are you?” Harry focuses back on Zayn then, voice somehow softer. “Surviving okay?”

Zayn nods, taps his fingers against the side of his cup. “Nearly asked a girl out a moment ago.” Part of him says it to gauge Harry’s reaction and he doesn’t let him down, eyebrows rising just slightly. “Turns out she has a girlfriend already.”

Harry’s face relaxes when he laughs. “Been there before.”

“Is that Stan?” Louis interrupts them as they look only at each other, stepping forward between them so his elbow is snug in either of their stomachs. “And here I thought I wouldn’t know anyone,” he says, almost to himself, pushing through Harry and Zayn and lifting his hand to wave at whoever Stan may be.

“Why is no one swimming?” Harry asks as he surveys the crowd, edge of his cup pressing to his lips. He smacks his lips as he takes a drink and wiggles his tongue at the burn.

“My question exactly,” Zayn says.

“Guess no one is in their swimming clothes,” Harry says, shrugging when he catches Zayn’s eye again. “I’m looking at you Mr. I wore a suit to a pool party.”

Zayn laughs and feels the increasingly familiar warmth towards Harry emitting from somewhere in his stomach. “Its pool _themed_ ,” Zayn emphasizes, “Plus Robyn said I would fit in quite well with this suit.”

Zayn feels heat rising in his cheeks as Harry’s eyes run over him, feet to face and pausing at the top. “Yeah, no, you do look fantastic.”

Zayn clears his throat. “I like your romp and play set.”

“Excuse me?” Harry’s voice goes higher, a laugh on the edge of his words.

“Romp and play,” Zayn repeats. “Don’t you ever see that with kids? Like, matching sets that aren’t connected so kids can romp and play easier than if it were all one piece?”

“Romp?” Harry repeats, lips parting into a gape and his going high. “I’m not a child Zayn.”

Zayn drags his eyes in the same path Harry just did, ankles to hair, pausing at his eyes. “No, you’re definitely not.”  He takes a sip of his drink right as he says it.

Harry doesn’t blush the way Zayn did but he does push his hand back through his hair and take a sip of his drink, eyes comically wide as if everything is suddenly too much.

“Oh, except her,” Harry says suddenly. Zayn tries to follow his gaze, confused. Harry juts his chin beyond Zayn’s shoulder and he finds what he’s looking at then: the model with the stacked float dress. “She could go in the pool,” he says as Zayn connects back to what they were talking about before he was inadvertently ogling Harry’s body.

“She could probably walk on the water with all of those,” Zayn agrees.

“Her name is Hannah,” Harry says while they still watch her, “And I’m sure you’ve heard about the sand swimsuit last year? That was her too,” he says once Zayn nods.

“Creative, then.”

“Also, the meanest girl you’ll ever have the displeasure of meeting.” Harry grimaces, “She thinks everyone is out to topple her career.”

“As a inflatable pool ring model?”

“Exactly.” Harry laughs and then ends up biting his lip to make himself stop. “Now, I should probably go say hello to the hostess. You good?”

“Yeah, good,” Zayn says already glancing around for another recognizable face he can slip in to.

Harry lifts his cup towards Zayn in cheers before he cuts his way back across the party. Zayn sidesteps back into the group with Maya in it, luckily her and her girlfriend make room for Zayn with smiles and he’s thankful. Of course then, he ignores the conversation swirling around him to watch Harry who can barely go a few steps without being stopped by someone. A lot of people kiss his cheek and hug him, and a couple people even run their fingers through his hair like he’s a prize pet. When that happens Zayn feels a sharp hook behind his ribs put he passes it off as the sugary acid in his drink more than anything else. He does snort when someone interrupts the fondling of Harry’s hair to push him up against the Maxim-branded backdrop, taking his picture with a fancy camera. Harry takes it in stride, though Zayn can see he doesn’t smile as his picture is taken. From what Zayn can tell, there’s no emotion on his face as he poses, staring dead on at the photographer. Still, he shakes the photographer's hand before he walks away and Zayn nearly rolls his eyes. Fucking Harry Styles.

“Unreal, isn’t he?”  Zayn stays composed when he hears the voice, a girl in a dark blue dress coming up next to him. The group around him has made room for her as well though no one else seems to know her very well.

“Who?” Zayn asks as if he’s not just been caught staring.

“Harry Styles,” she says, giving him a pass that warms her to him immediately.

“Oh, yeah. He is.” Zayn focuses back on her and doesn’t let his eyes flit to Harry this time.

“Gigi,” she says, offering her hand. She has a round face and blue eyes, a small nose and ruby red lips. “You’re Zayn, right?”

He nods as he shakes her hand, tries to act like everyone always knows his name off the cuff.

“I did a shoot with Verve the other week,” she explains, “And everyone was talking about this new guy Zayn and how pretty he was.” Zayn definitely blushes. “I made one of the stylists show me a picture,” she says. “They were right. Even prettier in person, too.”

Zayn doesn’t really know how to respond and it must show like a blueprint on his face.

Gigi laughs, “I swear I’m not hitting on you.” Her voice is raspy and she waves a hand between them, “I’m just now realizing that’s what this looks like. I saw you over here being a loser and I wanted to help.”

“Hey.” Zayn squints at her and she laughs again. Evidently trying to blend back in the group with Maya and failing at it only stare at Harry across the courtyard had black marked him as a loser.

“He knows Kate Moss so casually. Like, what is that about?”

It takes a moment for Zayn to catch up again, this time when he does he sees Gigi staring across him and over at Harry again. Some of Zayn’s pubescent fantasies come to light as he sees Kate Moss, in the flesh, hugging Harry, gesturing at his outfit when she steps back. Kate. Moss.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says. “He knows everyone. Or, everyone knows him, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, albeit lamely. He wishes he had something more interesting to say, that his mind could pull a few more words together for him.

“He’s the only guy I’ve ever been like, I want his life. I wouldn’t mind being Harry Styles. What a life that must be.” She laughs, not unkindly, and Zayn laughs with her.

He doesn’t say that Harry is cynical and can be lonely, that he’s learned Harry is an introvert who forces himself to be an extrovert, confident with insecurity tucked in the corners. He just let’s their laughter taper off.

“Listen,” she says to Zayn, “I have to pee but I really like you, okay?” She waves her hands around, “Your quiet but it’s your spirit or something, I don’t know.”

He shakes his head, “That is some bullshit. But it was lovely to meet you, Gigi.”

She laughs as they shake hands again. “I swear it. I have a girlfriend who always reads auras and shit. If I find her here, I’ll introduce you.” She winks, “You’ve got a good one.”

Zayn ushers her away, laughing as he watches her go, winding back through groups of people. He looks back towards where Harry had been but he’s already gone.

Zayn settles himself by getting another drink and slipping into another group of people he kind of recognizes. He’s relieved when he sees Max across the circle of faces and tries to participate in the conversation. At first, he feels like he might need to be on top of his game in this group, campaign references at the ready like his first gala but he realizes the conversation is revolving around who gets the most trashed at these types of things, who they saw doing a line in the bathroom already and how no one ever makes it to the office the next day. He takes a sip of his new drink, vodka burning the tip of his tongue down to the back of his throat and he revels in the sting.

When he glances around periodically he doesn’t see Harry anymore, though his eyes wander more often than he should or would like to admit. But, for that matter, he doesn’t find Louis again either. Every once in awhile he hears Louis’ sharp voice and laughter but then it fades in another wave from the crowd.

Everywhere Zayn looks someone is taking a picture of themselves or someone they’re with, posing and trying to make things look better through the screen than in real life. He knows there is glamour in the setting and charming details like the giant flamingo in the pool and beach balls in the fountains but Zayn also sees a high heel get stuck in the soft grass, a ball get lodged in the bubbler of the fountain causing an aborted gurgling, and two girls all but glaring at each other before a photographer came by and they fell into each other laughing, posing for a photo and then stepping away silently. Zayn feels the distorted sensation of being in a bubble except he’s got a pin to poke at the little holes and notice the things that are wrong.

At one point a woman with lipstick, dark enough to be black but a purple instead, grabs Zayn’s arm, “Isn’t this night marvelous?” she says against his ear with all of the palpable joy of someone who actually believes that. He smiles back at her and nods absently, fully noticing the way she rubs the side of her throat before she walks away. Trying to push the drip further, he’s seen that one before.

On the other hand, Zayn is pretty much over it before he’s been there two full hours, wanting to eat a greasy hamburger after he overhears a model say he’s been on a twenty-four hour cotton diet to wear the shimmery speedo currently on his body.

As he’s debating leaving, disappearing through the crowd and back to his car, he sees Louis and Harry both at the same time. Standing together across the courtyard but close enough Zayn can watch clearly as a girl comes from behind and grabs onto Harry’s hand, laughing. Zayn watches curiously as Harry shakes his head and pulls his hand back from her. She looks hurt for a moment but then someone else, a guy who is taller than Harry with dark hair, replaces her. His face is contorted with something Zayn can’t place as he gets close, his face right up close to Harry’s. Their words don’t travel across the courtyard but Zayn can tell their conversation is not friendly.

Zayn’s feet are frozen to the cobblestones beneath his feet as he watches the exchange, Louis coming in closer to both of them but with his eyes only on Harry. It doesn’t seem to deter the stranger as he takes another step in towards Harry, their chests nearly touching in the proximity. The girl from the beginning comes back into view, hits the stranger on the shoulder and says something that twists her face in anger before she turns away and fades back into the crowd.

For a moment, Zayn thinks the guy will follow her but when he doesn’t, Zayn moves first, crossing the short distance to where all three of them are.

“You don’t know me anymore.” Zayn hears Harry’s voice but he almost doesn’t recognize the low and angry quality to it so unfamiliar from his smooth lines or joking lilt.

“You forget we know you best, Styles.” The stranger smiles, nearly sneers, and his voice is patronizing with every intention.

There’s a jolt then and Zayn can’t be sure if Harry goes for the other guy first or the reverse, only that Louis comes up between them with a yelled out, “Hey!” No one pays attention to his voice, barely discernible over the build of the bass and general chatter. It’s a bubble around the three of them and Zayn is right on the edge.

The swell of noise around them makes it so Zayn can’t hear again, the abrasive laughter of strangers disarming as he watched the scene in front of him. There’s a tense line to Harry’s shoulders and Zayn doesn’t want to see his face, to see whatever is there.

The stranger facing Harry puts his hands up and takes a step back smirking. Zayn can’t hear what he says as he winks but Harry tries to step forward again. Louis is there again and he pushes Harry’s chest and then his eyes fall to Zayn. Louis gestures towards him when he speaks but Harry doesn’t turn.

“Just go,” Louis says. Zayn hears him in the space of the music but whatever comes next is muffled again.

Harry glances back towards Zayn then, his face closed off, unreadable. Before Zayn can speak, he makes an abrupt turn and sweeps past Zayn without meeting his eyes. There’s a flurry in Zayn’s stomach, a nervous jump at something that’s happened he can’t identify. His eyes search out Louis even as he knows the confusion is written across his face.

Louis nods his head towards where Harry has disappeared in the crowd. “Go,” he mouths, or maybe says out loud, Zayn only reads his lips.

Zayn doesn’t pause before he turns to follow Harry, barely catching a glimpse of the back of his head as he crosses the floor near the entry back into the building. Zayn shoves through people to try to chase after him, unsure of the sudden urgency in his veins but just knowing he needs to get to the other side.

There are more people inside than Zayn expects to see but he finds Harry, spotting him as he turns one of the corners near the front exit. Zayn swallows any nerves and dashes after him. He expects to find a hallway when he rounds the corner but instead it’s a dead end, an unused coat check desk by the looks of it.

Harry turns when he hears Zayn, either his feet on the marble floors or his panting from a chase he hadn’t intended to be on.

For a moment, he is unrecognizable. He has hard lines along his jaw and around his mouth, his eyebrows pulled together and his eyes dark. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, replaced by a sense of softness Zayn hasn’t seen before either. Harry takes a step toward him, eyes focused on Zayn’s face. He comes closer and Zayn almost takes a step back before Harry crashes into him. He stops when he realizes that’s exactly Harry’s intention. He doesn’t move a muscle.

His vision blurs as Harry comes further, thoughts melting from that guy and the way he looked at Harry, from Louis and the relief in his face when his eyes found Zayn, even from the thrum of the music, the squealing of other party goers -- all of it narrows to one singular vision, one person.

Zayn feels Harry’s hand first, his fingertips on his neck, sliding so his thumb presses against Zayn’s ear, his other hand falling to Zayn’s waist and pulling him closer. Zayn doesn’t fight it, doesn’t want to as his blood rushes in his ears and he takes up the last breath of air between them on an inhale. When he breathes out, its against Harry’s lips, pressed to his in a kiss that he can’t stop.

It’s all consuming, Harry pressed to his front, his hand against his lower back pushing him in closer, lips hot and insistent. Zayn closes his eyes and tries to kiss him back, realizes with a fierce pull he wants to kiss him back, doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands but by the time he remembers to think about doing anything, Harry is pulling his face back from him. His body stays put, the solid warmth against Zayn’s front sending something curling in his chest.

Harry’s face is a mask of questions as he pulls back, eyes wide and red lips parted, Zayn thinks he sees some fear there too; As if he’s crossed a line he drew with his toe in the sand and never meant to cross. Maybe he has. Zayn’s hands are shaking gently and he clenches them in fists at his sides to get them to stop. Harry licks his lip and Zayn can sense he’s about to say something, the way his eyes dull and his mouth forms a thin line. Zayn has a feeling he doesn’t want to hear whatever it is.

To stop him before he starts, Zayn leans in closer and presses his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth, unexpectedly soft even as he does it. He pulls back and raises his eyebrows at Harry. “Okay?” He’s not sure Harry’s heard him with the music and the group behind them but he’s sure he can read his lips; his gaze seems frozen there.

Harry’s mouth tilts into a half smirk -- for his part, Zayn can’t take his eyes away from the pinkness of his lips either, the memory of the soft insistence they are so capable of. Despite it, he meets Harry’s gaze again unsure of what will be there. He finds openness he isn’t expecting and the shine of something that was missing when he turned around earlier, a warmth. He bites his lip and nods at Zayn.

That’s it, Zayn thinks. Their friendship has been irreparably renegotiated to involve kissing at parties and he’s not sure how to get back from there. Okay and a nod; too many lines crossed to conceive of going forward business as usual. The way Harry looks at him, the look of a half told joke on his face, almost makes Zayn think he initiated this to start with, dragged Harry in.

Almost.

Because then Harry leans in close again, his lips right against Zayn’s ear, his voice enough to provoke chills up the length of Zayn’s spine as he says, “Come back to my place?”

His answer is automatic and without thought -- a nod. Whether it be the vodka still lingering on his tongue or something else, he can’t put his finger on the ease of his answer. Nagging in the back of his brain is the idea that, mere as it may be, there’s a chance his building emotion towards Harry, the crush, the desire to touch him, to kiss his mouth, might just be reciprocated.

Harry let’s out a breath when Zayn nods, deaf to Zayn’s inner monologue. “Okay,” he says almost to himself and then repeats himself once more with a nod of his own. “Let’s go, then.”

They don’t touch as they walk out, Zayn just behind Harry. A couple of people stop them only to ask why Harry is leaving early and to share a bit of conversation before they continue on their way. No one seems to be concerned about Zayn leaving though he doesn’t miss some of the glances shot his way, eyes dragging over him like he’s at some sort of audition. Maybe he should have had just one more drink.

Zayn hardly focuses on what Harry says once they’re in the car, trying to calm his breathing and stop his palms from sweating irrationally. He’s not naive enough to not know the reason they’re going to Harry’s place and he’s not immune enough to not want exactly what’s on the table. Still, it’s the ever-present idea of grabbing the things you want and finding out they weren’t what they seem, making a split second decision that changes everything irrevocably.

And then Harry starts laughing at a meme he sees on Instagram and leans over to explain it to Zayn, breath warm against his cheek.

“If you have to explain it, I don’t think it’s as funny as you think it is,” Zayn says once Harry dissolves into laughter again.

Somehow Harry’s face of betrayal and then a slight pout as he goes back to his phone gets Zayn’s mind away from his racing thoughts and the relentless circles of his brain. At least until only one thought in particular comes forward, pushing through the haze. Maybe tonight will be the night he sees Harry’s bedroom.

Zayn ignores James’ barely there smirk when they get out of the car in front of Harry’s building but he does manage to make small conversation with Charlie the doorman as Harry calls for the elevator.

“One of them fancy parties?” He asks and Zayn nods, tells him it was pool themed.

“Without a functional pool,” Harry chimes in as the elevator beeps to announce its arrival.

Charlie raises his eyebrows. “How about the gal with the,” he scrunches his eyebrow, “What was it last year, Harry?”

“Covered in sand,” Harry says.

Charlie nods in recognition, “Yeah, her. I wasn’t sure if it was paint or sand or both. Trekked it all over the lobby that’s for sure.”

The bottom of Zayn’s stomach drops for reasons he can’t try to explain--maybe the passing sensation of being just another person Harry’s brought home from a party. He puts on a smile for Charlie and tells him she wore pool floats tonight -- as if he’s in on the joke this time and not just finding out Harry brought her home last year instead. Charlie waves them away once the elevators door slide open, laughing to himself as they go. Suddenly uneasy, Zayn follows Harry into the vestibule.

They ride in silence, Zayn’s eyes on the floor. When Harry clears his throat he looks up on instinct.

“She was dating Niall.”

Zayn swallows, “What?”

Harry’s eyes shift before landing on Zayn’s. His face is serious. “When Charlie said Hannah came in the lobby last year. She was here with Niall.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, gaze drifting towards the lighted panel counting up the floors they pass. He tries to sound as unaffected as possible. “That’s cool.”

“That’s what I meant earlier too, when I said she’s kind of mean. She broke my best friend’s heart.” Harry shrugs when Zayn looks at him but his eyes implore Zayn to understand. “Felt like I should explain better or something.”

He sounds sincere and it means something to Zayn, yet another thing he can’t quite place -- that Harry wants to justify the things he’d said as if he could sense Zayn’s unease. He nods again.

Zayn stays just inside the door of the apartment as Harry goes around to the light switches, turning them on. At the far wall he straightens one of the curtains and then turns towards Zayn. He seems unsure and so Zayn walks toward him, to show him it’s okay. He means to stop a few feet back but like a magnet he can’t pull away once he’s close, pushing forward until Harry takes a step back against the wall and they’re merely a breath away from each other.

“Hey.” Zayn whispers the word and it still comes out broken.

Harry swallows and Zayn can nearly touch the nerves lingering there, he can feel his own collecting in his own stomach. “Hi.” His voice is louder than Zayn’s but his eyes are guarded, searching Zayn’s face.

It comes so naturally what happens next, the way Zayn reaches for Harry’s face and makes the breath between them disappear so their lips connect, Harry’s hands going to Zayn’s hips and twisting in his suit jacket. It’s a surge of electricity as much as it is something much softer. Zayn gasps against Harry’s mouth when his hands tighten and pull him in closer, their chests pressed together.

Harry’s mouth on his, strong and gentle as he guides his lips apart, pushes Zayn further, his hands slipping back to hold Harry’s head in his hands, curling his fingers around his hair. There’s a helpless and low sound in Harry’s throat Zayn suddenly wants to hear again and again as he presses him back against the wall even more. Harry moves his head so Zayn can slide his mouth to his neck, taste the sensitive skin under his ear and then feel the strong muscles under his tongue.

The air vibrates when Harry presses Zayn’s suit jacket off his shoulders, both of their eyes hooded and heavy once they finally meet. Zayn swoops to kiss Harry again, his fingers finding the buttons on his stupid Hawaiian dad shirt and pulling them apart, undoing each one and slipping his hands underneath, sliding against Harry’s heated skin around to his back. His thumbs press the dimples at the base of Harry’s spine, dragging his hips in closer and he gets the same low sound to come from Harry’s throat again. Once more when he does it again, biting at Harry’s collarbones this time.

“Let me see,” Zayn says, taking a step back to look at the ink on Harry’s chest and stomach.

As if he’s done this part before Harry stands back against the wall, hands out to his sides and shirt tucked up around his back as Zayn looks at him. He drags his fingertips over the path of his eyes, inked birds and a butterfly, over the ferns across Harry’s hips. He’s slow as he looks over the endless stretches of pale skin, slower when he realizes the effect his eyes, his steady gaze, has on Harry. His fingers are squeezed into fists against the wall, his pupils blown wide as his ribs expand under his skin. His thin shorts leave nothing to the imagination and Zayn sees the effect he has on him there as well. Zayn takes advantage, hooking his thumbs in Harry’s pants and kissing his neck, slow presses of his lips and gentle traces of his tongue until Harry can’t seem to take it, grabbing Zayn’s face and kissing his mouth, holding him there.

Zayn regains his footing as he steps back raises an eyebrow at Harry. “You wanna see mine?”

Harry smiles, and shrugs, sounding more composed than he looks. “Probably not as cool as what I’ve got.”

“Hardly a competition,” Zayn says, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. “For me, I mean.” He grins but he’s not sure Harry sees it, his eyes only on Zayn’s hands.

Once he finishes the last button, Zayn shrugs out of his shirt, letting it hit the floor with his suit jacket. Harry is not as patient with looking, his eyes trace Zayn’s body once before he has to hold him again, kissing him and letting his hands settle over the front button on Zayn’s trousers.

There’s a question in his eyes when they look at each other and Zayn answers on his own, undoing the buttons on his pants before Harry gets a chance.

He lets Harry push them off over his hips before they come together, wrestling Harry’s shirt onto the floor. Led by a desire in his stomach, Zayn marches Harry backwards until he hits the wall again both of them laughing against each other at the thump they make. Zayn traces the plains of Harry’s chest with his mouth this time, down, down, down until he’s on his knees in front of him, his turn to ask a question.

His fingers trace the top of Harry’s shorts and further down over the fabric, feeling the heat and press of him underneath the exotic print.

Harry closes his eyes and Zayn doesn’t have his answer yet so he kisses the soft downy hair above Harry’s shorts before he asks again. “Can I?” He lets his hands trace the front of Harry’s thighs, the ink Zayn thinks may be an animal of some sort. His mind is elsewhere at the moment. “Babe?” He presses an open mouthed kiss to the front of Harry’s shorts, feeling the heat beneath the fabric on his lips.

Harry’s head falls forward, eyes focused when he nods. “Please.”

Zayn smiles to himself as he pulls Harry’s shorts off and then his black boxers, pressing his face to the junction of Harry’s thigh and biting the soft skin there. Harry is big and Zayn thinks it had to have been expected with his quiet confidence and the ego he let’s run wild when he’s being the recruiter version of himself.

 

It happens at once, when he circles his lips around his cock and takes him into his mouth fully -- Harry’s hips pressing forward, his hands grasping Zayn’s head as moans, a broken sound high in his throat. It only spurs Zayn on.

His focus is singular, only on making Harry feel good as he draws his lips closer and moves forward until his throat protests, fingers gripping the backs of Harry’s thighs. He gets lost in the movement, the weight on his tongue and the taste; the way Harry directs his head back and forth with his fingernails digging into Zayn’s scalp, sure but light. Nothing else matters as he pushes for Harry to get to the edge, waits until he can drag him back and forth once more.

He doesn’t get the chance when Harry pulls away from him and lifts Zayn up to kiss his lips, no holds barred about tasting himself on his mouth. Harry hisses when his erection drags up against Zayn’s boxers and then he does it again on purpose, smiling against Zayn’s cheek. Zayn finds out why when Harry’s hand presses against him, curling around his dick with delicious pressure. He does it again and Zayn sees spots dance behind his eyes.

“Come to bed with me,” Harry says against his cheek. It’s not a question and Zayn can’t say his answer or reaction would be any different if it was.

“Lead the way,” he says, stepping away from Harry and gesturing towards the back of his apartment, the hidden away parts.

Harry laughs as he pulls Zayn along, pausing to press him against a wall near the kitchen to kiss him, palm him again. Zayn could get lost under Harry like this, against a wall and with his hands with such sweet pressure. Before he can, Harry pulls him away again, leads him along the hallway.

Zayn’s not sure what he expects to see when Harry turns on the light in his bedroom, perhaps a sense of things out of order, something that doesn’t align with his pristine exterior. Instead, it looks the same as the rest of the apartment, more cluttered maybe. His bed is covered in a black and white bedspread with a chair in the corner, a book face down. There’s a soft rug half under the bed and jutting into the floor, unlit candles on the dark wooden dresser and two lamps on either side of the bed.

Harry doesn’t give him a chance to look much further than a sweeping glance, his hands quickly finding Zayn’s hips as he walks backward to his bed, Zayn walking along with him. He rolls his eyes when Harry bites his lip and his eyes drop down Zayn’s body in a slow gaze. Harry laughs at Zayn’s reaction biting his lip again.

Zayn has a feeling this works for Harry, the lip biting and long gazes, but all he can think of is the stupid tropical, matching romp and play suit and the helpless sounds Harry made when they were in the hallway.

That’s what he wants. He wants Harry to fall apart and he wants to be responsible for it. He wants to push Harry’s buttons to make him laugh and other ones to make him beg and grab hold in the best way. The rush of desire, of wanting more than is even being offered, scares Zayn. His heart feels as though it skips a beat in his chest, his blood rushing to his ears.

If Harry notices, he doesn’t show it as he falls back on his bed and takes Zayn with him. He holds Zayn’s face when he kisses him, pulling back his bottom lip with his teeth on just the right edge of pain. They stare at each other for a beat, inches between their faces, their chests rising against each other and then Zayn ducks down to kiss Harry again, refusing to let up this time until all they can do is catch their breath against each other.

Harry touches Zayn as if he’s wanted to for far longer than just tonight, a reverence and a curiosity in his fingertips. Zayn touches Harry like he wants to break him a bit, pulling on his hair and biting his lips, pressing him further and further into the mattress with each roll of his hips. He can’t stop.

Harry gets Zayn’s pants off with deft fingers as they rut against each other, Zayn’s hands planted on either side of Harry for control as he drags his hips down again and again.

“Will you--” Harry gasps when their cocks slide together. “Will you fuck me?”

Zayn pauses his hips, eyebrows pulling together as if he’s confused. “What if I want to be fucked?”

The words seem to catch Harry off guard, blinking prettily up at Zayn with his abused lips parted.

“You ever think about that?” He drags his hips again, sensing he’s got Harry where he wants him.

Harry swallows, hands balled in fists as if he’s trying not to touch. “I like that too.”

“Yeah?” Zayn leans closer, keeps their eyes locked as he does. “You like it every way, huh?” He puts his weight into his arm so he can trace Harry’s lips with his fingertips. “A bit greedy like that?” He knows he can keep going by the way Harry’s breath catches and his eyes go heavy. “It’s okay,” he whispers, letting his hips dip down one more time, “I’m like that too.”

Harry lifts his head to kiss him and Zayn doesn’t make him work for it, giving in easily as his fingers trace the outside of Harry’s arms. He traces the inside of Harry’s mouth with his tongue and his hands slip down and behind until he’s got his hands on Harry’s ass. He squeezes and swallows the groan from Harry’s lips.

Zayn lifts his head slightly, “So, how do you want it?”

Harry’s eyes flutter before focusing on Zayn’s again. He doesn’t say anything, like he’s scared to ask for it. Zayn smiles, if they’re doing this and if it may only be this one time, he’s going to make it everything they want.

“Don’t go shy on me now, love. What do you want?” He squeezes the swell of Harry’s ass to press him up as he pushes his hips down, hissing at the contact. His own words don’t get to him as much as Harry’s subtle reactions and the give and take of waiting to figure out what’s next. The anticipation builds in his stomach with the same fervor of an orgasm.

For all that he can play coy, Harry Styles still knows what he can do as he smirks at Zayn, the hint of the man Zayn sees in public playing there on his features. “Well, babe,” he puts emphasis on the babe to sound like Zayn’s accent. They both laugh. “I believe what I asked,” he says once he stops smiling, “Is for you to fuck me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, “You’re a sassy little shit.” As with most things he says, it comes without much consideration and Harry laughs, shrugs his shoulders the best he can while laying down.

“What’s it to you?”

Zayn kisses him, hard, to shut him up, grabbing his hands and pressing them back by his head to give himself the upper hand again. He let’s go to kiss down Harry’s body, the soft skin of his hips and the thin, pale skin of his inner thighs. He draws a line of bite marks up the inside of Harry’s leg, where the seam of his pants would be. In the moment, it’s because of the sounds Harry keeps making the way he tells Zayn not to stop. There’s some part of him, deep in his subconscious he doesn’t want to acknowledge, that wants to leave a lasting mark. _I was here, in your bed, and my mouth did this to you. You liked it._

When he can’t take it much more, Harry directs Zayn towards his bedside table for condoms and lube. Zayn knee walks over before settling on Harry’s stomach, straddling him. He likes to watch Harry laid out under him, all of the ways he’s made him fall apart already, red on his face from Zayn’s beard and along his chest, messed up hair and dark eyes from the internal frenzy Zayn knows is mirrored in his own body.

He stretches Harry slowly, slower than he should, just to hear all the sounds he can make and then run a hand over his stomach to feel his shaking muscles. He wants to do so much to him and with him here on the bed, it’s nearly overwhelming. He’s never had so many thoughts over a one-night stand, so many things he wants and needs all at once. He settles instead on enjoying the moment he has, pressing in with his fingers and tasting the sweat on Harry’s skin with his tongue. Zayn closes his eyes when Harry reaches to trace his mouth with his fingers, tentative, and then draws his hands back through Zayn’s hair.  
They’re sweaty and sticky by the time Zayn is satisfied and Harry is whining at him to hurry up. He slides into Harry while he kisses his trembling lips. It’s hot and slick, and Zayn’s toes curl from the pressure as he tries to hold himself up over Harry’s body. He gives Harry a moment to adjust, for his face to turn from strained to something else, more open, and nod up at Zayn, asking him for more. They find a rhythm after only a few hitches, falling easily together as they hold and pull, grip and twist.

Zayn feels it first, the contraction of his muscles, the collecting of every last bit of energy in his body at the very center of him, his stomach. It’s too much to focus on especially when he looks down to see Harry blissed out of his mind, fingers pulling at his own nipples and working between them to pull on his cock. Zayn wants to tell him to stop, to not touch. He wants to make Harry grab the headboard until he comes untouched, he wants to make Harry cry out and sweat more, he wants Harry to go blind of anything but chasing Zayn’s touch, his skin. He wants so much and he can’t have it.

Almost as if he knows what Zayn is imagining, Harry keens as he comes and Zayn feels his body pull him in tighter, the muscles clenching inside and outside as his hips buck up, up, up. But what gets Zayn, what sends him over the edge, is the whisper of his name on Harry’s lips as he rides out the wave he’s built.

Zayn chases the sensation, the crest of his own release when he glances down at Harry, his jaw slack and eyes closed. He opens his eyes to meet Zayn’s and says Zayn’s name again, his voice cracked. Zayn comes just like that, jaw dropping open, body going taut and then soft, eyes locked with Harry’s.

In a world that isn’t there’s, they would wander back to the main room and lay on the couch, naked, watch a movie. They would order food because Zayn’s stomach rumbles as he pulls out of Harry and ties off the condom. They would fall asleep lazy and sated setting their alarms for Friday morning while discussing how unreasonable a Thursday night party is in this economy.

Instead, Harry flops to his back as Zayn walks around the apartment collecting his clothes.

“You can stay,” Harry says when Zayn circles back through his room, fully dressed. Harry’s gotten under the covers of his bed and Zayn feels a pang of jealousy. He’s tired deep in his bones and he wants to be in a bed with his head on a pillow so badly.

Still, he shakes his head as he pats his pocket for his phone and then his wallet. “Best if I don’t.”

He feels awkward for a moment, unsure what to do--to kiss Harry again or to just leave. A kiss seems too much after the fact. It’s not as intimate leading up to the act or in the middle but here in the aftermath it seems too romantic as he leaves, as Harry stays in his bed. He’s so busy contemplating, he doesn’t hear Harry get up until he sees movement, Harry pulling on a pair of sweats.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he says when he catches Zayn staring.

Zayn nods, tries to avert his eyes from the low hang of the fabric on Harry’s hips, the wide expanse of his chest and narrow lines of his stomach. He turns on the ball of his foot to leave the room, Harry on his heels.

“Goodnight,” he says at the door, rocking back and forth on his feet in the hallway.

“Goodnight,” Harry repeats back. He twists the doorknob a few times like he’s trying to figure out what to do with his hands.

Zayn hopes that he is. He hopes that he feels some of the same conflict Zayn does as he goes towards the elevator. Some sense of confusion in what they just did and what it means for everything else. He rests his head on the side of the elevator as it takes him down to the lobby. He’s too tired to think it through, to really consider every consequence so he doesn’t. He pushes it all to the back of his mind and tries to make it fade.

It doesn’t help that once he finally makes it back to his apartment, crawls into his bed smelling of sex, sweat, and Harry Styles, he falls asleep with visions of Harry in his mind, his pink lips and green eyes crowding away all rational thought.

…

It’s a funny thing -- the nights that seem like they change everything. The sensation that waking up in your bed will no longer be ordinary; that everything to happen from that moment forward will somehow be affected by one night. Then, maybe it’s not so funny after all when none of that turns out to be true.

Life continues as normal for Zayn Malik. He slumps drowsily into work to find a barrage of emails the next morning and a pile of look books he’s supposed to be reviewing. It’s overwhelming as usual and none of it will change or go away simply because he slept with Harry Styles. He’s still Zayn, still responsible for the creative direction of an agency only with a slight hangover and a not so pleasant disposition from having to actually get out of bed.

Kris stops by to check in mid-morning, as she’s prone to do -- once she knows Zayn has had sufficient caffeine. “Couldn’t have been that fun last night,” she says from the doorway. “I don’t think anyone ever makes it to the office after those things.”

Zayn grins halfheartedly, “I’m one of a kind, me.”

She rolls her eyes and drops off another file for him to go over. The truth is Zayn could have worked from home today, nursed his hangover by binging Netflix and occasionally checking emails but he needed out. As much as he wants to push away every question brought up the night before, he knows he needs to stay distracted in order to make it happen. So, he made himself come into the office and focus on something besides Harry, besides what everything must have meant.

...

He’s left waiting longer than he expects. Zayn hears absolutely nothing from Harry straight through the next week.

The excuses Zayn allows in his mind during the first days -- of Harry needing space and time for work--slowly fade into the realization that he’s never gone off the radar for a full week before. He tries to convince himself that Harry only used to call or text him once in awhile but it doesn’t stand the test of his memory, of the fact they’ve seen each other multiple times a week for the last few months whether intentionally or by happenstance.

Zayn uses the first weekend to very carefully not think of Harry and instead, to catch up on work and then catch up with his family and Liam. He organizes his apartment a bit more and tries not to consider the way he feels as if the carpet has been tugged out from under his feet. The facts are simple: he had a crush, he acted on the crush and he ended up with nothing but fading teeth marks on his neck. It feels like a free fall.

It takes until the beginning of the next week to realize he can contact Harry instead, that there are no rules about who should speak to whom first in a situation like theirs. Yet when he pulls up a blank text screen he can’t find anything to say to bridge the gap of what has happened and where they are now. It doesn’t help he has no idea where they are now. He really doesn’t let himself think about where he wants them to be.

He goes to 28 on a Wednesday night with the vague and senseless hope of running into Harry there. It’s hardly a vague hope with such a pointed move of going to his best friend’s bar but he convinces himself it is. Just an innocent passing by to see Louis. He is, after all, Zayn’s friend now too.

The bar is more crowded than Zayn expects when he gets there and then he’s only able to steal a moment of Louis’ time as he flutters around with an unexpected soda water machine crisis.

“Come with me,” he says when he sees Zayn across the bar, dragging him out to the patio with two bottles of beer in his hand. He makes a beeline for the outdoor set up in the corner and people move out of the way when they see him coming. Zayn’s sure he’s the only bar owner so passionate and visible to his patrons.

“How are you?” He asks once they sit, handing Zayn a beer. They use the edge of the railing to pull off the tops.

“Fine,” Zayn says because he is. “Just thought I’d stop by and see you.” None of it is a lie even if his eyes draped over the place the moment he walked in looking for someone in particular. Even now, he can’t quite focus on Louis as his gaze circles the other groups nearest them.

“It’s been crazy.” Louis takes a pull from his beer. “Like, nonstop business and I’m not sure why. I didn’t think it would all take off so fast.”

“Not a bad thing,” Zayn offers with a wry grin. The beer bottle sweats in his hand but the cold drops of condensation are welcome in the evening heat.

“No,” Louis agrees. “Just thought I’d have a whole year to work through the kinks, like the soda fountain shooting liquid up against the ceiling.” He laughs and it’s near manic. “I’m glad you came by though. Helps to see a friendly face on these nights.”

Zayn raises his bottle before he takes a drink. “Has anyone else been by? Niall?” He can’t bring himself to say Harry, to be so transparent.

He nods and Zayn’s pulse picks up. “Yeah, Ni and Harry came by yesterday afternoon actually.” Louis purses his lips, “Niall said he was going to help with my books and Harry napped in one of the booths.”

Zayn hums and takes a drink for something to do. He can’t help the way his heart crushes in his chest. For nearly eight days he’s thought Harry might be busy with work or isolating himself the way Zayn has been. He didn’t want to consider the alternative, that he’s only isolated Zayn, lest it be true.

“That’s good.” He says finally, watching Louis lay his head on the back arch of the couch and close his eyes. “Friendly faces and all that.” He wants to ask Louis for his opinion, to help him figure out what to do next. He can’t lose Harry as a friend but whether he needs to apologize or act like nothing ever happened and just call him up, he doesn’t know.

Louis has to get back to the soda crisis a few moments later and tells Zayn his drinks are on the house. He humors him and drinks another while he stands at the bar but there’s something so lonely about being in a place he’s come to love except now he’s alone and feeling a bit empty so he leaves too.

He walks home rather than find a cab, letting the warm August air of the night wash over him. He’s at a loss for what to do and he doesn’t want to be. He wants to reach out and he doesn’t know how.

...

Zayn is good at many things. One is being able to drag his feet on anything that makes him nervous or uncomfortable. Deciding to reach out to Harry in some way, figuring out how to steady the ground where they stand, he decides, will fix itself if he refuses to. It’s an ideology that has only bit him in the ass on multiple occasions. All of his life, he’s had to eventually face his problems head on though prolonging the confrontation is always his preferred route.

Considering his track record with avoidance, he’s surprised when his phone rings Saturday morning with Harry’s name lighting up the screen. He almost doesn’t answer, a sharp knife of nerves spiking in his stomach. Close to when his voicemail picks up he slides his finger across the screen to answer the call. He stares at the phone in his hand for a beat before finally pressing it to his ear and saying, “Hello”.

In the space left between that word and waiting for the reply, his stomach swoops with an uneasy feeling of what to say and how to play whatever happens next. He had assumed he would need to figure out a plan to approach Harry not that the plan would be ring his phone at eight in the morning.

“Zayn, it’s Harry.”

Zayn laughs into the phone because he can’t help it.  “Harry, I can see who calls on the screen before I answer. Magic of caller ID.” He bites his lip when he hears Harry’s long exhale, a familiar sound especially when it comes to Zayn teasing him.

“Listen, I’m going to a patisserie class this morning.”

Zayn waits for more information but none comes. “And why is that?” He prompts.

“I’m recruiting a chef next week, or like an editor for a cooking magazine, more like.”

“So you thought you’d just become a chef over night, then?” Harry makes it so easy to forget any lingering tension and laugh instead.

“No. I thought it would be nice to know a couple of things, a couple of niche phrases.”

“Niche phrases?” Zayn laughs then, his head falling back onto his pillow. “You could just use Google for that, you know.”

“You’re very annoying this morning,” Harry says, “I’m rethinking this phone call.”

“I’m sorry,” Zayn apologizes without meaning it.

“Good,” Harry says. “Now, will you come with me or what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that an invitation?” Zayn can nearly picture Harry’s face across the line.

“Will you? Because I’ll be to your place in half an hour and the class starts at nine.”

“You’ve left me no alternative options, then?” Zayn closes his eyes already lamenting the lazy Saturday he won’t have but not debating the chance to see what’s happening between them head on.

“Please don’t make me go alone, Zayn.”

Zayn sighs, “Of course I’ll go.”

They hang up and Zayn drops the phone on his bed -- somehow in their whole conversation he forgot to feel awkward once.

...

As has become standard practice, Harry drives his own car to pick up Zayn, parking haphazardly in the fire lane in front of his building.

“Fantastic park job,” Zayn says when he gets in the passenger seat, tugging the belt across his lap.

“Thank you.” Harry smirks and then signals to pull back onto the street.

They’re quiet for most of the drive and Zayn starts to wonder if it’s because there’s nothing to say in the moment or because of what happened. It’s a startling thought that passes next, whether it will always be like this. Unsure if things are normal or not, unable to remember far enough back to be able to tell the difference.

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks to fill the silence. He looks at Harry as he says it--the messy bun and pouted lips, strong jaw -- and finds a renewed heat in his chest, this time of desire. Now that he’s had him, he wants more. His brain bypasses the parts of confusion and tension to focus solely on that: he wants more of Harry.

“Patisserie class,” he says, looking toward Zayn, oblivious of the sudden dragon in Zayn’s chest. “Told you that already.” He smiles and Zayn forces himself to look straight ahead again.

Perhaps the worst that could have happened is this, Zayn with a bubbling fizz in his stomach at the sight of Harry and Harry completely unmoved by any of it. Perhaps he didn’t intentionally leave Zayn out of his life the last few days, maybe that’s just the way he’s always played it and Zayn never opened his eyes wide enough to notice.

Harry clears his throat, maybe misreading the quiet. “It might be terrible but at least you’ll get breakfast.”

“Cheers to that,” Zayn says. “Only thing that got me out of bed, really.”

“Not my gorgeous hair and winning personality?”

Zayn puts a lot of effort into a nonchalant snort and a roll of his eyes. “Hardly.”

The class is near the industrial back part of the city in a building that is marked only by a sign painted with two wooden spoons crossed over each other. They check in at the front and get assigned a station number before being ushered into a room. The room is flanked with windows and natural lighting, ten or so small wooden islands spaced around with a large workspace up at the front. Each station has a mason jar of flowers perched on it, a different type for each station; Zayn and Harry have white daisies. Each station has its own island with a full set of tools, all of which Harry touches once they are standing by one. Zayn watches a bit too intently and maybe laughs too loudly when Harry knocks a stack of metal mixing bowls to the cement ground.

“This is definitely something you’re supposed to do once you’ve been married for fifty years,” Zayn notes as he looks around at the older couples filing into their stations.

“Getting a head start,” Harry says.

Their instructor is a woman with white hair, Gretchen, who has the voice of a fairy as she leads them through the creation of breakfast pastries.

Zayn does the best at making crepes, thin and airy as he takes them from the pan on their miniature stove and sets them aside to rest. Harry gets assigned to covering each with berries and sugar once he manages to tear five crepes in half before they’re even fully cooked. They also make cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting and Gretchen says Harry has the best frosting in the class when she comes around to inspect.

“Did you hear that?” Harry whispers as she moves to the next table. “She said I’m the best.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at him and then dusts some leftover flour into his face. It’s a good kind of revenge. They eat as they cook, conversation muffled between mouthfuls of crepes as they move on to making a crumbling blueberry muffin.

“Did you know I used to be a baker back home?” Harry asks, licking some whipped cream from his thumb.

“Let me guess, you baked for the queen of Cheshire and won culinary excellence awards?”

“Asshole,” Harry says pointing at him with a blue finger stained from the berries. “We don’t have a queen and I didn’t win awards but I could make some damn good muffins.” Harry tries to keep a serious face but Zayn sees his lips twitch.

“Sure.” He grins and then leans forward to swipe a bit of cream from the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Wait, why are we here, then? You should already have niche vocabulary to show off shouldn’t you?”

Harry shrugs, “I always like to do something relevant to the job I’m recruiting for or something the person likes. In this case, brush up on the basics. Like, I’ve gone horseback riding and nearly smashed my balls in the process just for a woman who had rode bareback all her life.”

Zayn winces and crosses his legs at the thought. It’s sweet that Harry cares enough about his job to do such thorough research. “What about me?”

“What about you?” Harry raises his eyebrow as he starts to mix up the dry muffin ingredients.

“How’d you prepare for me?”

Harry smiles. “Read a book.”

“What book?”

“The Goldfinch since you tweeted about it.”

Zayn gapes, “Really? My entire existence pairs down to being able to understand me by reading a book I tweeted about?”

Harry laughs and talks while he gestures with the spoon. “I thought you were an easy bet because everyone said you seemed to want the job for sure. And then I looked over your resume and I wasn’t going to learn to do digital art in a weekend so I went and got a new book.”

Zayn sighs exaggeratedly and hip checks Harry so he can take over stirring the sticky batter. “Was I an easy bet then?”

Harry smirks and plucks one of the fresh blueberries from their supply table, biting it between his teeth. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, Zayn, you were nothing like what I expected.”

“Really?” Zayn preens a bit.

Harry shrugs and eats another blueberry.

“You didn’t even mention the book that whole week.” Zayn tries to scan his memory in case he’s forgotten. For the most part Harry had come off as shallow and a bit manipulative.

“I was nervous,” he says, swallowing and meeting Zayn’s gaze. “I was scared I wasn’t impressing you and suddenly mentioning a book seemed stupid.”

Zayn laughs and a couple of people look back at him, he apologizes with a gentle wave of his hand. “You didn’t seem scared.”

Harry licks his lip and then starts dropping blueberries in the bowl as Zayn folds the batter over them. He doesn’t think he’s going to say anything further.

“I don’t seem like a lot of things but it doesn’t mean I’m not.”

Zayn leaves it at that, Harry with his cryptic phrasing, and sets about putting the liners in the muffin tins instead. Their muffins come out fluffy and warm though a couple of them do overflow the tin and onto the ground. Zayn sweeps those under their station with his boot. The class wraps up shortly after the muffins and Harry and Zayn pack take out boxes with their left overs.

“Drop you home?” Harry asks once they’re in the car and Zayn nods.

He doesn’t know what to say again as they drive and the more they don’t say anything the tighter the ball of nerves in his stomach gets. Since he was a kid, his hope has always been that nerves like this will eventually crush into nothingness. More often, he finds that they explode in worse ways than he expects.

Harry puts the car in park in front of Zayn’s building and turns in his seat. Zayn turns as well, expecting Harry to speak first.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says.

“It was fun,” Zayn says, smiling softly. “Somehow with you it always is.” He means it too.

Harry laughs but doesn’t argue as his eyes drop to Zayn’s lips. Zayn swallows at the attention, unsure. He doesn’t flinch when Harry reaches for his face and leans out of his seat to press their lips together. He stays perfectly still except for the erratic heartbeat in his chest, and the blood rushing up through his cheeks at the soft, warm press.

Harry deepens the kiss, his thumb tracing Zayn’s cheekbone when he does. Zayn melts into it, as much as the center console will allow, letting himself indulge in baked blueberries and powdered sugar on Harry’s tongue. He pulls back first before things go too far, pushing another soft kiss to Harry’s lips before he pulls away fully. They stare at each other and Zayn feels like a deer in headlights--confused about what to say or do next.

“See you later, then?” Harry prompts, voice too loud in the quiet between them.

“Yep,” Zayn nods. Double affirmative for no reason. “See you.”

He gets out of the car and resists putting a hand to his lips until he’s in the lobby, emotions racing around in circles and crashing into each other. That kiss can’t be blamed on alcohol or adrenaline, anger or desire, that was a kiss of thanks and exploring--innocent and in broad daylight. Zayn has no idea what any of it is supposed to mean.

As he heads for the stairs to his floor he decides he won’t question it. Not now. Not when he’s getting exactly what he wants. He forgets to caution himself against getting what he wants without looking around first, checking for alarm bells and flashing lights. Or maybe there’s a part of him that does remind him and just a bigger part that ignores it.

...

“Your salad is what I imagine the inside of a baby’s stomach might look like.” Zayn stares at the bowl in front of Harry--kale, beets, seeds, and smashed avocado all harmoniously, and disgustingly, together.

Harry lifts his head to look straight on at him. He holds eye contact while he chews and Zayn tries to keep the same pace although he has a smile threatening to break through. He’s about to glance away first and then Harry opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, presents the half chewed concoction in his mouth. Zayn’s eyes go wide as he pulls back with an undignified yelp, his eyes clenching shut.

“That is fucking disgusting,” Zayn says with one hand covering his face. He only drops his hand once he hears Harry laughing, sure his tongue is securely back in his mouth.

“I was just demonstrating what it would actually look like in a baby’s stomach,” Harry says simply, jabbing at his salad with his fork. “Not that I know any small humans who eat kale but to each their own.” He shrugs and laughs when he looks up to see Zayn staring at him.

“You’ve taken it too far,” Zayn says. He prods his own fork at his very safe, very drenched in caesar dressing, salad, mashing a few croutons along the way. “Even the guy making it looked at me funny while I ordered it.”

Harry’s lips twitch as he unscrews the cap on the water bottle Zayn remembered to grab for him. “He probably thought you were pretty and couldn’t focus.”

He rolls his eyes at Harry, “Pretty sure it’s the kale and beets, but thanks.”

Zayn’s the one who chose the surprise of a spur of the moment lunch, knowing Harry rarely brings his own lunch to the office. He stopped at the salad bar beneath his office and ordered the off the wall combination Harry got the last time they’d gone together. Zayn rarely chooses a salad of his own volition so maybe that says something about Harry that he was even stepping foot in the place on his own.

Or maybe it says more about his curiosity instead.

A handful of days he told himself he wouldn’t worry about whatever it is that’s happening with Harry and he would just let it happen organically instead. It turns out telling and doing are two different battlefields and Zayn was ill equipped.

Harry was effectively surprised when Zayn showed up with lunch. Zayn, of course, called him from the lobby beforehand rather than dealing with the receptionist who, as he expected, kept up the tradition of looking at him as though he had climbed through a window rather than walked through the front door.

Zayn’s not sure what kinds of key differences he’s looking for with Harry, what changes he expects to find now, as they sit across from each other at the conference table in Harry’s office eating their lunches. Their conversation is easy as usual, steering from Harry’s bizarre taste in food to the photo shoot Zayn has been preoccupied with--overseeing the construction of a life size dollhouse.

“How’s the chef? Impressed by your niche vocabulary?” Zayn asks once he’s shown Harry pictures of the building progress on his phone.

“Very,” Harry says. “She asked me to go to an advanced level patisserie class with her this weekend. She’s only really done savory sweets before but this one is about making donuts and Danishes and what not.”

Zayn blinks, a bit stunned. Here he’s been trying to figure out what he means to Harry and perhaps the answer just came out: not enough, evidently. “Oh, really?”

Harry smiles at him, like maybe he knows he’s flustered. “Yeah, there’s a class that a hotel out in wine country puts together, I guess.”

Zayn controls his voice. “A bit presumptive, isn’t she?”

Harry smirks. “Maybe.”

Zayn’s mind whirls as he tries to figure out why he feels as though his feet are sliding out from underneath him. “Are you going?”

“Of course not.”

There’s a severe clench in Zayn’s stomach that relaxes immediately. “No?”

Harry smiles slowly. “I don’t particularly make a habit out of hanging out with clients off the clock.”

“Right.” Zayn purses his lips. They’ve been over this. He’s still the only exception. That must mean something.

“I’m also not in a financial position to run around the countryside without my corporate credit card, spending money on someone who will have already signed a contract.”

Zayn’s eyebrows raise slightly, “Cold-hearted businessman right there.”

“Honest,” Harry says, right as his phone starts ringing. He holds up the silver iPhone to show Zayn where it says ‘Jane’ followed by food emojis. “Speak of the devil.” He frowns at the screen. “I should take this.”

Zayn gathers their garbage from lunch as Harry talks on the phone, his voice deeper and smoother as he walks a thin line in front of the windows in his office. Zayn can’t help but laugh listening to him, the way everything he says sounds on the edge of flirtatious. He knows Harry isn’t in the business of selling sex appeal, not consciously anyway, but he’s starting to think he could be good at it.

Zayn doesn’t intentionally linger once the table is cleaned though he does try to catch Harry’s eye before he leaves. He waves once he finally sees the green of them and then moves towards the doorway right as Harry starts talking more quickly into the phone, trying to wrap up his conversation, one finger lifted towards Zayn as if to ask him to wait.

“Okay, sounds great,” he says moving towards Zayn. “I’ll send the car, sure.”

Zayn laughs when Harry raises his eyebrows at the last sentence, remembering their first battles revolving around a town car of all things.

He thinks Harry might crash into him but then he stops only inches away, smiling. He’s intoxicating Zayn decides right then, breathing him in.  He hasn’t wanted someone so badly in a longer time than he cares to remember. The sensation is only intensified by the length of time in between the first night they were together, the drawn out heat of whether they’ll do it again or if one slip was enough. For Zayn, once was not enough.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry says into the phone, eyes dropping to Zayn’s mouth.  
When they first met, Zayn thought Harry Styles could bring people to their knees with his gaze, the power there. Again and again since it’s been trained on him, he knows he’s right. His stomach shakes just looking at Harry, the expectation that lies somewhere underneath that gaze. The expectation that Zayn now knows can become something else. Zayn swallows as Harry ends the call and just avoids running his tongue over his lips.

“Harry?”

On instinct, Zayn side steps away from Harry to create a gap between their bodies just as his assistant, Julia, comes through the door, a stack of papers in her arms.

“John just signed the legal documentation for that Condè Nast contract. Do you have time to go over it?” She looks at Harry and then towards Zayn expectantly.

Zayn smiles and clears his throat. “No problem. I’m leaving anyway,” he says. He looks at Harry who appears just as flustered as he feels. It’s relatively new to see him lose the cool exterior but Zayn is quickly becoming addicted to being the one responsible for it.

“I’ll see you,” he says, nodding to both of them.

Harry bites his lip and nods, holding Zayn’s gaze for a beat before tearing his eyes away. “Julia, I have a few minutes. Come on in.”

Zayn leaves as she walks by, skirting around each other in the doorway, though he’s sure his heart is beating much faster than hers.

...

Later in the week, Zayn is just starting down the steps of the subway when his phone starts to ring. He bumps a few people while trying to get it out of his pocket, apologizing and fumbling until he can answer properly though he’s still surrounded by red-faced New Yorkers.

“My dinner date just ditched me,” Harry announces apropos nothing. “How do you feel about Italian food?”

“I don’t hate it,” Zayn says, pleased by Harry’s warm laughter in response.

It takes Zayn far too long to change trains and then a bit longer for him to realize he could have walked to Fifth Avenue instead. He chalks it up to adventure when he finally makes it to the restaurant, finding Harry outside in a printed shirt with his sunglasses pushed back in his hair. He smiles as soon as he sees Zayn, putting his phone in his back pocket.

“You got ditched?” Zayn asks by way of greeting.

“The editor-in-chief asked her to go to dinner instead,” Harry says with an effective pout before brightening some. “But I really wanted to go here with you, I knew you’d love it.”

Zayn laughs as he follows him into the nearest set of doors with ‘EATALY’ printed over it in block letters. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“Really,” Harry says over his shoulder. “I was planning to bring you here eventually just maybe not in the same week as a client.” He smirks, “I’m watching my figure.”

Zayn rolls his eyes at that.

The restaurant is not what Zayn is expecting at all. It’s more of a market than anything else with counters of fresh food and aisles of artisan food lined up in between. The smells of sweet and savory converge in the air falling lightly upon the crowded conversations and shuffling of feet.

Harry watches Zayn take it all in before he speaks, smiling slightly at Zayn’s wide eye amazement. “You can eat and then go buy authentic ingredients to try and make something yourself,” he says. “There’s a sit down restaurant in the back but I like browsing the counters more.”

“Where do we start?” Zayn asks. His eyes still graze over everything in view, people scattering around with shopping baskets and ordering at the counters, stopping over to the sides and out of the way to eat the food they’ve bought.

“Do you trust me to pick?”

Zayn sighs melodramatically, “No kale and no veggie smoothies.” Harry blinks at him before turning on his heel and walking further in the crowd. Zayn follows him with a laugh.

Trusting Harry becomes easier once Zayn sees they’re headed for a sandwich counter. They both get Panini sandwiches made on freshly baked bread though Harry is more adventurous with the meats and toppings on his while Zayn goes for Italian roasted chicken.

“Boring,” Harry sings into his ear once he orders. Zayn bumps him with his hip.

They eat while standing at a tall table in the corner mostly just watching as waves of people pass by.  Zayn is struck by the fresh flavors of his sandwich and he feels like a salesman as he rambles on about how good it is.

“It’s so good,” Harry agrees over a full mouth. He holds out a finger while he finishes chewing which Zayn appreciates. “I always try to buy ingredients afterwards because I think I can make something like this at home. It’s never even half as good.”

“Maybe you don’t have the magic touch.” Zayn wipes his mouth before balling up his napkin.

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Are you implying that you do?”

Zayn shrugs his shoulders, rolling his tongue over his teeth to clear any stray bits of his sandwich. “I might be. I also set off the fire alarm in the apartment last week while making curry. So, maybe not.”

Harry laughs--the sound is genuine and warm, sailing over the rest of the crowd and lighting Zayn up from the inside. It’s a feeling he doesn’t want to let go.

Once they finish eating and Harry has thrown their garbage in a nearby trash can, they set off to explore the store, getting lost between the aisles and coming up on dead ends before having to turn around. They pause while Harry picks out a bottle of olive oil he’s evidently been wanting which, Zayn tells him, makes him sound like the most boring old man in the world.

“I’ll cook you something with it and that’s not what you’ll be saying,” Harry says smugly as he reaches to take a tall bottle from the shelf.

They get stuck looking at more of the freshly made breads and Zayn picks out a long, crusted sour dough loaf based on the smell alone. “No idea what I’m going to do with this,” he says as he tucks it under his arm.

“Eat it with my fancy olive oil,” Harry says, biting his lip. “And maybe we should get pasta or something too.”

Inadvertently planning a dinner date was not Zayn’s intention by picking out the bread but he doesn’t mind, swooping up a shopping basket for their bread and olive oil as they go towards the pasta and sauces. He let’s Harry do the picking for the sauce out of kindness despite Harry’s belief that it is because he was once a baker.

“That actually has nothing to do with pasta sauce,” Zayn tells him as he studies the wall of jars. They all look red to Zayn, made out of tomatoes probably. He likes to cook but he can’t be sure about much beyond basic ingredients or the things his mum has told him are good.

Harry ignores him, pulling on his bottom lip with his fingers as he scans the display. “This one,” he says after a few more minutes pulling away a jar that looks, unsurprisingly, like the rest of them.

“Ah, yes.” Zayn nods. “Very wise choice.” He laughs over his words as Harry glares at him. “Next up, noodles,” Zayn says, looking up towards the signs with directions over each aisle.

He starts walking towards the correct aisle once he spots it with Harry right by him. He tries not to startle when Harry reaches out for his hand to hold as they walk but the way his heart immediately jumps in his throat he’s not sure he handles it well. Their hands fit together easily, as hands are made to do, but Zayn gets a thrill through his chest at the small gesture, a smaller answer of what this is all supposed to mean.

The noodle aisle is overwhelming, made more so by Harry running his thumb in circles over the back of Zayn’s hand. It’s such an absent thing for Harry to do but Zayn takes it a step further, a sign of comfort between them to be able to do it without overthinking it. On Harry’s part, at least. Zayn’s overthinking train ran off the tracks three weeks ago when he kissed Harry for the very first time and everyday since.

“I don’t know about you,” Harry says, pulling Zayn from his intense focus of the sensations against his skin. “But I really want to buy the wheel noodles.”

Zayn can’t help smiling when he tries to give Harry a disbelieving stare. “You mean you picked out the fanciest sauce on the shelf and now you want the same noodles Kraft puts in Wheels and Cheese.”

Harry laughs and with it comes a squeeze of Zayn’s hand. “What can I say? I’m young at heart.”

He’s still smiling when Zayn leans in, led by a thread in his stomach he cannot control, and kisses Harry on the mouth. It’s not long or lingering, not in the noodle aisle of all places. Harry looks surprised when Zayn stands back, though they don’t drop hands. Zayn wonders if he’s read the night all wrong, wonders how he possibly could have. Then Harry leans forward and kisses the corner of his lips and squeezes his hand again.

“Is that a yes, then?” Harry asks, as he pulls back.

“Yes?” Zayn keeps his voice even.

“To the wheel noodles,” Harry says, like it’s obvious.

Zayn laughs and realizes in a split second that he’s too far gone for Harry Styles. Regardless of what any of it means, anything that happens, there’s no going back from the way he feels, the pure warmth in his fucking heart as Harry cheers and gets a box for noodles from the shelf, dropping his hand to do so.

They get gelato from one of the other counters after they buy their food and then eat it at one of the picnic tables outside, the night air warm and a bit muggy as Zayn has come to expect from summertime here. Harry gets mint and Zayn has caramel but they end up sharing, reaching over each other in the process.

“I’m feeling pretty good about getting ditched right now,” Harry says, hitting Zayn’s hand out of the way to get another bite of his gelato.

“And I’m happy to be your second choice.” Zayn crinkles his nose at Harry though he’s not sure it’s as intimidating as he has intended when Harry laughs.

“Well, she did offer to reschedule with the editor-in-chief,” Harry says, “But the way I saw it, I’d rather just see you instead.”

Zayn’s heart doesn’t skip a beat because his heart is a fully functioning one, but he loses half a breath while trying to catch it, looking at Harry’s clear green eyes, the honesty there. So many times Zayn can’t be sure what he’s seeing is real, the guard Harry keeps up and the pretenses of being scarily closed off, but then there are moments like this, when they’re together, that seem so genuine Zayn doesn’t know why he’s questioning anything at all.

“Good,” he says quietly, nodding.

The moment doesn’t sit heavy, which Zayn is glad for, they get into a sword fight with their spoons over Zayn’s last bite a few seconds after. Later, Harry walks Zayn to the subway station and when they kiss he tastes sweet like gelato and a flavor all his own. A flavor, Zayn’s figures, he can’t get enough of.

...

Sometimes Zayn can’t believe he’s living the life he is, like when Max asks him to accompany him one Friday night to meet the representatives of an L.A. based production company. He definitely doesn’t pinch himself once he gets off the phone to prove that he’s not dreaming, not at all.

That night the duo from L.A. eats thin-crusted pizza and drinks red wine while they discuss their ideas for shoots with Zayn’s input on the logistics of how they could make it all work. He far outnumbers the amount of pizza he eats by the glasses of wine he drinks but he doesn’t mind the warm fuzziness that washes over him by the end of it all as he shakes their hands and takes their business cards.

Max shakes his hand too, before they leave at the end of the night, and he tells him how impressed he’s been by Zayn’s work so far and how effectively he leads the team. Zayn smiles and thanks him for the opportunity before waving and dodging around the nearest corner and smiling so hard into his fist his eyes close.

Ducking around the nearest corner was not his finest decision he quickly realizes as he looks around and notices he doesn’t recognize much of anything. He starts to wander towards the loud crowds of people, taking in the city as his eyes glaze over new faces and nameless strangers. People he doesn’t know can only fascinate him for so long before he wants to see someone that means a little more and he takes out his phone.

Harry has just dropped off his client at her hotel when Zayn calls. He tells Zayn he’ll come pick him up where he is since James is already driving him. Zayn isn’t too opposed to the car this time, happily climbing in once he sees them slide along the curb fifteen minutes later.

“Hi babe,” he says sliding in the back seat and finding Harry. The air he’s currently floating on from dinner, and the wine, giving him no qualms as he pushes across the seat and kisses Harry without pretense, pulling his face closer and licking into his mouth before sliding back to his own seat. Harry’s eyes are wide when he looks at Zayn, half a smirk on his lips and shadows dancing across his face.

“Hello to you, too,” he says.

“Good evening, Mr. Malik,” James says from the front seat.

That’s enough to remind Zayn of the ground where he stands, or the seat where he sits rather. He clears his throat, his cheeks going red. “How are you?” He asks James while he pulls on his seatbelt, choosing to pretend the last minute didn’t happen at all.

Harry laughs into his fist and then coughs to cover it as Zayn makes conversation with James, mostly about the weather because that’s as far as Zayn’s mind will function at the moment. Harry rests his hand on Zayn’s thigh, tapping his fingers to a rhythm less beat.

“Where am I dropping you?” James asks with a glance in the rearview mirror.

Harry is the one to answer. “Zayn’s place.”

Zayn glances at him, one eyebrow raised and Harry just smiles at him. As a response, Zayn takes Harry’s hand from his leg and holds it in his lap instead, circling his rings and feeling the excited and hopeful bubble effect Harry seems to have on him lately.

They barely leave a moment to speak once they walk through the door, their lips finding each other without turning on any lights. It’s as electric as the first time, pulling at each other and bumping into walls while they make their way to the bed, laughing against each other’s mouths. This time Zayn savors where last time he pushed and pressed. He kisses along Harry’s neck and takes his time on leaving a mark under his ear. He also takes the time to tease Harry, pressing his hands up over his head as he grinds down on him, nipping over his chest and biting at the backs of his thighs when Harry tries to get the condom once it falls on the floor.

It’s made all the sweeter by Harry’s laughter and then his own teasing fingers and lips, chasing the hem of Zayn’s shirt up over his stomach and leaving it folded over his eyes as he kisses him. Zayn feels a tight zip of heat at not being able to see what Harry’s doing and he files it away for later. The chance of a later makes it all the sweeter too. Harry tugs Zayn's shirt from his eyes and stares at him then, half a smirk and swollen lips enough to make Zayn lose his breath somewhere at the bottom of his lungs. He grips Harry’s thighs as he sits up and kisses the mark he’s already left.

“How do you want it this time, babe?” He asks while Harry’s eyes study his chest, fingertips drawing over inked lines.

He looks up and kisses the corner of Zayn’s mouth. “You pick,” he says. “I chose last time.”

Zayn drops his head back with his eyes closed as if lost in thought and he smiles when Harry wraps his arms around Zayn’s neck and kisses him softly, waiting.

Zayn draws his hands back over Harry’s warm back, the swell of his hips until he has both hands on his ass. He spreads Harry just slightly as he opens his eyes, a dry brush of his finger making Harry gasp.

“Think I want you to ride me,” he says sweetly, kissing the side of Harry’s chin.

He’s rewarded by watching Harry’s eyes go dark as he moves his hips to brush Zayn’s finger again. “Funny,” he says. He swallows when Zayn moves his grip to hold Harry’s hips still. “That’s what I was thinking.”

Harry opens himself this time and Zayn nearly comes just watching; he nearly makes Harry come too, stroking him and whispering in his ear as he stretches himself.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry huffs after one string of particularly dirty commentary, “You’re gonna make me shoot my load in your eye before you even get in me.”

Zayn laughs so hard he falls back into his pillows as Harry finishes up. He hasn’t had this, something hot and sweet at the same time, something that makes him laugh into his fist with his dick getting harder by the minute.

Harry’s ready soon after that, holding himself up on Zayn before sinking down, curving and dipping his hips with such control Zayn sees flashing lights behind his eyelids. He sits up with one hand on Harry’s back and the other slipping down to feel where he splits Harry open. The effect is instantaneous, they both groan together.

Zayn isn’t sure who comes first or if that matters at all, only that they collapse in the middle of the bed sweaty and spent, tracing absent lines over each other's skin as dawn circles the city. When Zayn finally moves to brush his teeth, he studies the marks on his neck and chest in the bathroom mirror, his lips plushy red from being bitten by himself in pleasure and Harry in desire. He doesn’t mind.

“You can stay,” he says sarcastically to Harry as he comes back to bed. Harry is already wrapped around one of his pillows with his eyes barely drawing open and close.

Harry laughs quietly, opening his eyes slightly more to meet Zayn’s. “Good. Wasn’t planning on leaving.” He swallows as Zayn lifts the covers and slips in next to him, like maybe he’s waiting for Zayn to change his mind. The paradox of a man brave enough to stay without asking and nervous he’ll still have to go anyway.

“Okay,” Zayn whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth and then his lips. “Consider yourself invited.”

Harry makes a low hum of contentment as he moves in closer, pressing his warm face to Zayn’s neck. It should be claustrophobic, the way he holds on so tight, pushing tight to Zayn’s skin but he doesn’t consider it once, too consumed by the soft scent of Harry’s hair and the gentle rise and fall of his chest pressing against Zayn’s own.

...

In the morning, Zayn wakes up to his phone vibrating under his foot -- a startlingly unpleasant sensation--and his head on Harry’s chest, warm and solid under his cheek. His mouth is dry as he kicks around the bed covers searching for his vibrating phone. He jostles Harry enough that he wakes up too and reaches towards the bedside table for his own vibrating phone.

“Is the world ending? Why is everyone calling?” Harry’s voice is broken with sleep as he holds his phone in front of his face, squinting at it in the morning light. Zayn finally gets a hand around his phone and lies back on his own pillow as Harry says, “Niall wants to go to brunch.”

Zayn hums and unlocks his own phone to see the same text from Niall. “Hey, I’m invited too,” he says, flashing the screen to Harry. “Mr. Popular has met his match.” He sticks his tongue out at Harry before trying to type a response. He barely gets the ‘s’ of _sounds good_ typed before Harry is tossing his phone to the side and climbing on top of him, mumbling something about having better things for his tongue to be doing as he kisses him, intertwining their hands before rolling and taking Zayn with him.

Louis and Niall seem oblivious when Harry and Zayn come into the restaurant together nearly an hour later. They’re in a corner table on the patio, soaking in the waning days of summer as September quickly closes in; Louis with sunglasses and a scowl, Niall standing up when he sees them, an empty champagne glass already in hand.

“Best night ever,” Niall says by way of greeting as they sit down across from him and Louis. Zayn hands Harry one of the menus as he turns over his own.

“Rude,” Harry says. He takes a drink from the glass of water already waiting near his rolled up napkin. “I wasn’t even there.”

“He fell in love,” Louis says, voice scratchy as though he’s spent too much time yelling. “In my bar of all places.”

“The most beautiful girl,” Niall takes over the story, his tone far and beyond enthusiastic, almost tripping over his own smile. “She’s a lawyer, or working on it at least. She’s so funny and had me busting my gut. Smart and witty just like, perfect.”

“She was probably mediocre funny,” Louis clarifies. Harry shoots him a look and Zayn tries not to start laughing.

Niall ignores them all in favor of continuing. “At the end of the night, I call her a cab because I’m a gentlemen,” Louis snorts and Niall elbows him before continuing. “And she says she won’t give me her number, if we see each other again, it will just have to be by fate.”

All four of them are quiet and Zayn looks around as if he’s missed something. Niall is still beaming.

“And that’s good?” He finally asks.

Louis laughs loudly and hits Niall on the back. “That’s what I said.”

Niall looks between them, mouth turning down slightly. “Yes! She wants it to be fate that brings us together not alcohol or a one night stand or like, an awkward hookup. Fate.” He draws his hands along an invisible banner as he says the word. Zayn thinks he still might be missing a point.

“Yeah, unless fate,” Louis draws the same invisible banner Niall just did, “Fucks you over and you never see her again.” He catches Zayn’s eye and Zayn tries not to laugh again.

“Come on, Harry,” Niall says, pulling Harry into the conversation, “You believe it.”

“Sure,” Harry says, setting the menu down in front of him and leaning back in his chair. “Whatever will be will be, que sera sera.” He shrugs.

“See!” Niall throws his hands towards Zayn and Louis. “It’s real. Fate.”

Louis snorts, “Oh, yeah. Harry is walking talking proof, yeah? True love knocks down his door on the regular.”

Harry rolls his eyes and Niall laughs.

“Don’t piss on my parade,” Niall says. “I’m happy and I’m going to have another one of these,” he holds up his champagne glass, “Or two, and celebrate!”

“Anyway,” Louis looks towards Harry and Zayn, “What’d you two get into last night?”

Zayn’s never seen Harry stutter the way he does then but it’s not saying much considering he does the same, scrambling for something to say.

“I had dinner with my boss.” Zayn finds his words once the memories of Harry’s flushed skin and soft thighs clears to what else his night consisted of. “And a couple of people from an agency in LA. They wanted to kind of get my feedback on some ideas and whether Verve could do them.” He’s looking at Niall and Louis while he talks but he feels Harry’s gaze first.

“Really?” Harry sets his glass of water back down on the table when Zayn meets his eyes. “That’s incredible.” The night before hadn’t left much time for comparing dinner stories though Zayn knows Harry got his chef to sign on to the magazine. Somehow they had talked about that while undressing each other with hurried fingers.

Niall tells Zayn how great he is and Louis grins at him but Zayn has a hard time turning away from Harry, finally managing it when Niall and Louis have both gone quiet, staring at them.

“It’s a great opportunity,” Zayn agrees, his leg bouncing aimlessly underneath the table. At least until he hits his knee on the underside of the metal table and feels the sting from his toes to his hip. He sits still then.

Before Harry can have his chance to say he had yet another client sign a waitress appears, dressed in an all white suit, to take their orders. Zayn has a Belgian waffle he can barely finish while Harry pokes at a fruit salad and a melting cinnamon roll. Without thinking much of it, Zayn reaches towards his plate and cuts off a bit of the pastry before putting it in his mouth, laughing when Harry pouts at him. Louis watches the exchange curiously but Zayn just tries to ignore him.

They’re not finished eating when Harry looks at his watch and announces he has to go, wadding his napkin on top of his half-eaten fruit salad. Niall reaches for a strawberry on Harry’s plate and bites it while Harry stands up.

“Off to the airport,” Harry says, skirting around Zayn’s chair. “Hopefully to find the first male beauty editor of Vogue.”

Louis laughs, “Because you’re so qualified to recruit beauty people.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him, “I said I would do it because I wanted the challenge. You know me, I don’t like them too easy.” Zayn’s cheeks heat at that and he intentionally doesn’t look up.

“Of course not,” Niall says, sarcasm slipping between his words. “Who wants their work to be too easy on a Saturday.”

Harry ignores him. Still, Zayn’s not expecting it at all when Harry leans down to him, and holds his jaw with his fingertips as he kisses him, sweetly but lingering before he walks away and leaves the entire table awestruck.

Niall fish mouths, “What was that? What the fuck was that?”

Louis answers before Zayn can, cutting up his last pancake with the edge of his fork. “You should have seen them at that Maxim pool party. Tongue action from this one.” He points at Zayn with the piece of pancake now speared on the end of his fork.

Zayn’s cheeks burn deeper as he shakes his head, “Shut up.” There’s no way Louis saw them in the alcove of the lobby that night to know that for sure although Harry’s tongue licking into Zayn’s mouth right then did color them all shades of guilty.

“No but, really,” Niall says, full on gesturing between them now, “Are we not going to talk about that?”

Zayn gains enough footing to shake his head. “No. We’re not.”

  
And so they don’t -- talk about it, that is. Not once does Zayn approach a definition or the discussion of any definitive terms with Harry and never does Harry try anything close to putting a name to it. Once Zayn settles himself to that’s the way it’s going to be, it doesn’t seem that strange at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes: "This Is What You Came For" - Calvin Harris ft. Rihanna
> 
> Next update: Wednesday, August 24


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the tags -- they almost all apply through this chapter in one way or another.  
> Enjoy!

Summer swings gracefully into the beginning of fall, the rooftops and patios closing down to give way to rainier days and gusts of wind, the leaves darkening as their own bittersweet farewell to the stifling humidity and gently rotting smell of the city streets. Harry and Zayn fall into a rhythm of their own, an undefined semblance of a relationship though neither of them would probably call it that, if pressed.

It takes off as quickly as it does stay at a slow and steady beat. They see each other the way they always have but most nights out end back at one of their apartments and they definitely seen each other naked more often. Zayn is intimately familiar with the way Harry’s body looks out of his floral suits and pinstripe trousers; It is more than safe to assume Harry can say all the same things about Zayn. They kiss with startling morning breath, hold hands in public, and Harry definitely knows how to get to his office from the subway station closest to Zayn’s place. Being together comes easily, late nights sliding into mornings and afternoons together without invitation or expectations.

Doing the casual things are somehow better than the planned ones even if it comes at an expense, like when Harry convinces Zayn to workout with him. The night before, they came back so drunk they could barely find each other’s lips in the dark and ordered calzones for delivery while lying on the kitchen floor and laughing hysterically over absolutely nothing. In the morning, Zayn thinks death would be sweeter than his migraine and rolling stomach but Harry insists he needs to workout, prancing around his room in yoga shorts and a t-shirt, energetic as ever. Rather than being the lazy one, Zayn hauls himself out of bed to follow him, albeit reluctantly. Harry already has PiYo queued up on the television and a program called _Drench_ which nearly makes Zayn go back to bed anyway.

Part of the way in, Harry says he can feel the alcohol from the night before pooling in his sweat; Zayn, in the midst of downward dog, says he can feel the insides of his stomach close to pooling on the floor. Still, he gives it his best effort, twisting and turning to mimic the blonde woman on screen though it seems to come much more naturally to Harry. At one point, they’re supposed to be curving upside down but Zayn gets a head rush and plops on his back instead. Harry is far more entertaining than the workout, the way his muscles contort under his grey t-shirt and his legs pressing outwards easily. He’s an aphrodisiac without trying to be and Zayn crawls over to him on all fours.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks as he comes to lie back down on his mat from a yoga split, shirt stained with sweat, moisture pooling at his hairline.

“Nothing,” Zayn says easily, crawling up to straddle him and kiss the salt from his lips. “Just have a better idea than the rest of this workout is all,” he says as he slides back down Harry’s body, this time taking his black shorts and boxers with him.

“I like this workout,” Harry says, although it comes out weakly.

“Do you?” Zayn’s voice is teasing as he takes Harry in his mouth, any pretense of finishing the DVD disappearing with the roll of Harry’s hips to press further and the high whine in his throat that only spurs Zayn on.

Sometimes, the random plans can have their downsides too; as is the case when Zayn has to subsist entirely on liquefied foods the weekend Harry tries to teach him how to use his Magic Bullet. It starts when Harry asks if Zayn has made anything good yet to which Zayn has to admit he hasn’t made anything and may have forgotten he owned the thing in the rush of settling in. Harry takes it upon himself to teach Zayn the ropes and they spend a full Saturday making broccoli cheddar soup, protein shakes, and milkshakes. At one point Zayn thinks he might turn into a liquid if they try anything else. It’s wholly domestic to cook with Harry and, despite his complaints, Zayn likes that they do it together, bumping hips and shoulders in the small kitchen and making a soapy mess while trying to do the dishes. Zayn’s helpless when it comes to Harry stealing kisses in the middle of his sentences or smearing his mouth with ice cold smoothie just because.

When they get in bed that night Harry tries to make it up to Zayn, or something, with his mouth and hands everywhere at once, biting, licking, and touching until they’re both shaking and begging each other for the same things. Zayn’s gratitude comes by waking Harry up the next morning with the god awful sound of the Magic Bullet while he makes them fruit smoothies.  

When it comes down to it, Zayn thinks the small things and the random things are as sweet as any gestures or grand plans and his heart agrees. He has no control over the fluttering in his chest the day Harry asks to meet Liam, simple as anything while they’re walking back to their offices from lunch. “You know Niall and Louis and I’ve introduced you to Jeff,” he shrugs, “I just want to know your friends too.”

Zayn isn’t embarrassed by the fact he only has one really good friend for Harry to meet, he prefers a tight circle around himself comprised mostly of family and Liam. Niall, Louis, and, of course, Harry are finding their way into that circle too.

Though Zayn can’t orchestrate a getaway adventure for anyone, he arranges for Harry and Liam meet on Skype. He finds it impossibly endearing when Harry starts to get nervous about it, biting at the edge of his finger and pulling at the ends of his hair while Zayn sets his laptop on the counter.

“He’s not going to hate you or anything,” Zayn says once they’re sitting side by side and he’s logging onto his computer.

Harry nods but doesn’t say anything.

“And if he does, I’ll still want to hang out with you. Promise.”

Harry looks at him, eyes wide in a panic and Zayn laughs. He leans forward and kisses the nerves right from Harry’s face, teasing open his lips with his tongue before pulling away.

“Great, make me get a hard on before I meet your best friend.” Harry moves around on his stool, “Cheers, babe.”

Zayn laughs and puts his hand on Harry’s knee as he connects the call to Liam waiting an ocean away.

Harry has nothing to worry about, as Zayn suspected. He and Liam both get along as if they’ve known each other their entire lives, telling stories about London and making fun of Zayn. Zayn threatens to close down the laptop at least three times in the middle of Liam telling all of his embarrassing moments. Zayn isn’t even sure either of them notice when he gets up to start making dinner on the other side of the kitchen, carrying on without him.

Louis and Niall are jealous when Harry tells them he met Liam and they take to calling him Mysterious Liam much to Liam’s delight when, in turn, Zayn tells him about Louis and Niall. Zayn wants them all to meet in person someday and he gets excited at the prospect of both of his lives colliding all at once.

There are slightly bigger gestures, well-planned surprises, which Zayn comes to expect from Harry who does nothing if not all the way. What Zayn doesn’t expect as much is when Harry is shy about his ideas, almost as if he thinks Zayn will push him away, deciding that this particular surprise is one too many. What he doesn’t realize, and what Zayn doesn’t tell him, is that each time Harry surprises him Zayn falls a little bit more, ties his heartstrings to Harry a little bit tighter. There’s one night after work, Harry takes Zayn to the gallery where the very first preview gala was hosted to look at the installations and eat dinner on the rooftop. Zayn’s face lights up when he realizes where they are and Harry goes quieter. “Just thought you might want a chance to look at the art with the lights on,” he says as if for an explanation. He has a way of making things sound offhand and unimportant, a way that makes Zayn kiss him on the lips and tug him along to show him that it means more to Zayn than words articulate.

Harry’s a surprise when it comes to intimacy too. He’s playful and he likes to be teased but he likes to hold Zayn down too, and taste every part of him with his tongue, twice. Far and away Zayn has the most sex of his life with Harry and he’s hard pressed to remember a time it’s ever been so heated or magnetic with just one person over and over again.

They can be slow together, fingers intertwined with Harry on his back, lips gentle as if they’re trying not to bruise or with Zayn in Harry’s lap, his back pressed to Harry’s stomach, their hands held tight over his chest like they can’t let go. Some weekend mornings when they wake up lazy, and refuse to get out of bed, they can touch and taste for hours until they can finally get to a shower where they just touch each other more. They can be fast too, pushing each other and biting, getting so lost that they’re covered in sweat and marks by the time they finish, sometimes without realizing they’ve missed meeting up with Niall and Louis by at least an hour. Zayn’s fingers itch to touch Harry at all moments of the day, something that feels like when he was a teenager and hell bent on getting off twice a day. It’s an itch that Harry shares -- one that can get them in trouble.

In the middle of September they’re at a fashion show, pre-fashion week but important nonetheless. Zayn sits with the rest of Verve and Harry sits in the front row across the catwalk. Zayn laughs into his hand when some of the photographers take pictures of Harry and he stares blankly at their cameras. Kris nudges Zayn and asks him what’s so funny but he just shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain the fact that people want photographs of Harry completely baffles him-- _Harry_ who danced naked to the Spice Girls while making curry two nights ago. Zayn knows he’s pretty, _god,_ he knows what Harry Styles looks like, but, still. He’s just a guy in a pretty suit that they don’t even know.

Harry must notice Zayn’s laughter because he winks at him before the lights go out and the show begins. The show is nothing short of erotic -- one of the newer designers taking risks with models who have their nipples pierced and wear fully mesh pieces, walking the runway to heady beats and low drums. Red lights flash and Zayn gets warm watching, pulling on the tie around his neck when he feels like it’s getting tighter.

His eyes seek out Harry across the way and, by now, he shouldn’t be so surprised to see Harry staring right back at him, like he’s been waiting for Zayn to notice him. Zayn feels the itch on the tips of his fingers then, when he just looks at Harry and automatically wants him, feels his blood going warm and fire collecting right in his stomach.

Harry knows. He bites his lip and his eyes turn warm as he traces Zayn’s face from across the room. The air is thick between them, more so because they’re in such a public space, not even touching but staring, building anticipatory heat between them. Harry rocks forward slightly and then back. Zayn’s thankful to know he’s not the only one so affected.

The lights go up once the designer makes his appearance at the end of the show and they’re all swept into a ballroom beyond a curtain where drinks are served and everyone talks about the show, the cutting edges, the sex, the taboo. Zayn looks for Harry to come through the curtain and when he finds him he starts to make a beeline, smiling to the people he passes, not even thinking about how many there are--how many faces he recognizes and that recognize him. He gets closer to Harry and Harry turns toward him like he can sense him, smirking. Then, he spins away and starts walking, cutting across everyone else. Zayn loses a step before he follows. If Harry wants to play, he will.

They meet in a bathroom. Harry turns in first and Zayn walks in after only to be pushed against the door as Harry reaches behind him to lock it. His lips are hot and insistent against Zayn’s, licking and biting, hips rutting closer -- he just hopes Harry thought to make sure no one else was in a stalls.

“Saw you watching me,” Harry says, mouth against Zayn’s neck, his fingers on the knot of his tie. “Know you wanted me.” His fingers brush the front of Zayn’s pants and Zayn’s hips press forward off the wall.

Zayn tries to laugh but it comes out like an exhale. “As if you didn’t feel the same,” Zayn says, hands pulling Harry’s face up to his to watch his reaction. “I know how you feel about piercings.”

He leans forward and bites Harry’s chest through his thin red shirt, knows he’s hit his mark because the fabric is thin and a broken sound falls from Harry’s lips. He does it again, a bit harder.

“They’re going to hear you, baby,” Zayn warns but he doesn’t try to stop. He bites Harry again, holds his hips still as he drags his tongue over the sensitive spots on Harry’s chest, making him louder and louder by the moment.

“Stop,” Harry says, breathless with his hands in Zayn’s hair.

Zayn looks up, “What is it?”

Harry takes a second to catch his breath before he speaks. “That’s not what I brought you in here for.”

“No?” Zayn smirks and stands straighter against the door. “What is it you want me to do then?”

Harry grins like the fucking Cheshire cat. He grabs the length of Zayn’s tie and pulls where it’s already loosening so he’s holding the entire thing in his hands. “I want you to stay very, very still.”

Zayn nearly blacks out when Harry ties his hands behind his back and pulls down his pants, gives him the blow job of the century all the while telling him how good he is, how loud, how everyone must know what they’re doing. Zayn comes so fast, there are stars behind his eyes.

Harry’s hands shake as he unties Zayn’s wrists but Zayn makes it worth it, pulling Harry up to him and jerking him off in his pants, licking and sucking a mark on the dip of his neck that will surely make everyone know exactly what they’ve been up to. Harry muffles his sounds against Zayn’s shoulder when he comes, trembling in the aftershocks as Zayn works him through it. They slide down to the floor, Zayn’s back against the door and Harry against his chest.

“One of the cleaner bathrooms I’ve been sucked off in,” Zayn whispers just to make Harry growl like a feral animal before they both start laughing quietly and settle their racing pulses together.

Catching his breath, Zayn runs his fingers back through Harry’s hair. He holds Harry’s head against his chest where his heart thumps steadily. He tucks one hand down the top of Harry’s shirt and rubs slowly, smiles when he brushes Harry’s sensitive chest before settling over the inked birds.

Only a few days before they had played truth or dare on their own. Harry kept choosing dare when it was his turn, over and over. When he finally picked truth Zayn asked him what his biggest regret was. Harry smirked and lied, Zayn’s sure he did. He said it was piercing his nipples and the surprise of that had far outweighed Zayn’s desire for a real answer. Zayn asked why they weren’t anymore, almost forlornly, and Harry laughed as he told him how it made him hard each time his shirt brushed over the metal barbells. That comes to Zayn now as he runs his hand down over Harry’s chest again and pinches his nipple. Harry hisses and Zayn smooths his palm over it.

It’s funny the things he knows about Harry – previously pierced nipples and a penchant for bad hay fever in the fall, his love of Christmas and fashion made for dads -- compared to the things he doesn’t. It hits Zayn hard there on the bathroom floor, all of the things he doesn’t know about Harry, the things he’s never even asked. Harry asks questions, he doesn’t answer them. It’s been that way since the start.

“What’s your mum’s name?”

“What?” Harry lifts his head to look at him. Zayn pets his hair to make him lay back against his chest again. Vaguely he hopes there’s not a line forming outside of the bathroom door.

“What’s your mum’s name? You’ve never told me.” Zayn knows Harry has an older sister, his parents are divorced, he loves his stepdad and he likes to go on holiday with his dad and step-mum every once in a while.

“You’ve just made me come in my pants in a public bathroom and you want to know my mum’s name?” Harry clarifies, voice high and on the edge of laughter.

Said like that, Zayn laughs. “Yeah.”

Harry goes quiet and Zayn thinks he won’t say it; it scares him for a second.

“Anne.”

“Anne,” Zayn repeats.

“My step dad is Robin, and my sister, Gemma, is a massive loser,” Harry offers. Zayn takes each name like a rope, ties them in a knot.

“Robin, Gemma, and Anne.”

“Why do you ask?” Harry’s voice is quiet but not hesitant. Curious.

“You don’t talk about them much,” Zayn says. His fingernails are gentle against Harry’s scalp. “Or not with me.”

“I talk to my mum every day. I’ve told her about you,” Harry says, simple as anything.

Zayn hums. He’s known Harry for almost half of a year and he had no idea they spoke every day, no idea at all.

...

For Harry and all of his surprises, Zayn tries his best to be a surprise too.

On a crispy fall morning, Zayn tells Harry to meet him at the coffee shop between their apartments. Zayn has Harry’s nonfat latte at the ready once he shows up, a cup of straight black coffee for himself.

“Today,” he says, “I’m going to show you somewhere you would have taken me that first week if you knew about it.”

Harry looks at him, confusion written between his pulled together eyebrows. He also looks like he’s about to tell Zayn it’s too early on a Saturday for riddles. “What?”

“It’s a surprise,” Zayn says, grinning, repeating Harry’s favorite words back to him.

“Am I dressed okay?” Harry perks up as he pulls open his satin bomber jacket to show him the sheer black shirt he has on.

Zayn traces the moth beneath the fabric with his fingers and rolls his eyes. “It’s cold as hell out here but, by all means, it’s your choice. Your outfit is fine.”

Harry has a smug smile when he pulls his jacket closed and tells Zayn to lead the way.

They take the subway to Brooklyn and walk through a street market of handmade jewelry and art. The leaves are on the edge of falling from the trees and the air goes cloudy with each exhale, bright with the autumn sun.

“Have you been here?” Zayn asks as they wind through a vintage book stand, Harry running his fingers over every volume.

“No,” Harry says, the same smile he has whenever Zayn shows him something he doesn’t already know about. It’s few and far between, things he doesn’t know about -- New York will always have belonged to Harry first.

“Have you?”

Zayn snorts. “Of course not. But a girl at work told me about it. She also told me about the next place we’re going but that’s a secret.”

“You and your secrets,” Harry teases.

“Not as many as you,” Zayn says, half joking.

“I don’t have secrets,” Harry says. He’s got his recruiter smile on. Zayn pauses to press his lips against Harry’s jaw almost as a reminder that he knows exactly what’s underneath that smile.

“You have a few,” Zayn says.

“Yeah, like what?”

Zayn laughs to break the brief tension he can’t place. “Yours to tell I guess, babe.”

“There are none.” Harry’s laughter doesn’t reach his eyes but Zayn doesn’t fully notice, a book about Greek art catching his eye instead.

“Ta da,” Zayn announces a few blocks later when they arrive at a nondescript building on the corner of the street right near a rundown park. Nondescript save for the winding line of people that curves down the next block.

“What is it?”

“Rainbow bagels,” Zayn says with a grin, taking Harry’s hand and leading him towards the back of the line.

Harry’s eyes light up, “I saw these online but we didn’t have a contact to skip the line so I haven’t gone.”

Zayn laughs and squeezes his hand. “You’ll be happy to know that neither do I. We’re going to wait in line like normal people.”

Harry gapes as they come up to the very end of the line. “I hate waiting in lines.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Zayn says. Lower, he adds, “Thought you learned that last night, love.”

Harry doesn’t shy away how Zayn expects just bites his lip and closes his eyes as though lost in a memory. The same memory makes Zayn shift on his feet and glance around in case anyone can see the inner workings of his mind, the image of Harry blindfolded on his bed the night before. Zayn teased and edged him for close to an hour, until they were both drenched in sweat and so hard it hurt. Harry came twice by the time Zayn was done with him, and he told Zayn his body had turned to jelly as he lay there with the blindfold pushed up into his hair like a headband, Zayn’s come drying on his slick stomach.

Harry opens his eyes and kisses the crown of Zayn’s head. “Maybe.”

The line takes much longer than Zayn expects but he’s careful not to complain or show any signs of distress. Proving a point and all that. After what may have been nearing a couple of hours of waiting, they finally have fluorescent, tie-dye bagels with rainbow cream cheese frosting in hand as they go back down the street.

Zayn takes the first bite of his and tries to keep an even face as he chews the sugary and tasteless combination.

“Good?” Harry asks while he unwraps his.

Zayn shrugs and keeps chewing. Harry takes a big bite and barely gives himself a chance to taste it at all before he spits the entire mouthful out in a nearby bush.

“That tastes like fucking play-dough, Zayn. Holy fuck.”

Zayn stops at a garbage can and spits his out too. Play-dough may be too kind of a description.

Harry holds his bagel out in front of him, looking at it like a foreign substance. “That can’t possibly be safe to eat.”

“I guess you won’t bring any clients here?”

Harry shakes his head, “I won’t rule it out. If someone’s a real asshole,” he waves the bagel around, “Bagels for everyone.”

Zayn makes them take a picture with the bagels, both biting into theirs, teeth bared, before they throw them in the garbage, not even letting birds pick them apart instead. It’s that bad.

Luckily, Harry knows the neighborhood well and hijacks the morning to take Zayn to a brunch spot only a few blocks further away. While they eat, Harry posts the picture they took to his Instagram. Zayn has to convince him not to post it in black and white -- one of his favorite ways of sharing pictures.

“It looks artistic,” Harry says, showing off the inkwell filter.

Zayn pushes his phone away, “The beauty is in the colors of the bagel. That’s the whole point.”

“No,” Harry says, “The beauty is in your face.”

Zayn sticks his tongue out even as his cheeks redden.

Harry chooses the Lark filter and Zayn saves the picture to his phone. It quickly becomes his favorite.

...

Between it all – the heat, the spontaneity, fancy parties, and grand plans – Zayn finds his kryptonite in simply being with Harry, in the thoughtfulness he puts into nearly everything. He’s always making sure he has Zayn’s favorite beer in his refrigerator, bringing him lunch when he’s too busy to stop work and do it himself, anticipating what Zayn actually needs before Zayn even knows it himself. For his part, Zayn tries to meet Harry step for step, testing out massage techniques on him that he learns online after long weeks, buying his favorite vanilla yogurt even though it looks like jizz, and giving Harry space when he needs it. Time and time again, though, Harry seems to be better at the smaller gestures, like they come secondhand to him, without much consideration or thought.

Like, a Tuesday night towards the end of September when Zayn comes to Harry’s apartment well after normal work hours because of a night photoshoot and he finds Harry has drawn a bath in his bathtub big enough for at least a small party of people. Zayn has noticed the bathtub before when he’s slept over, stared at it while brushing his teeth but, like his mum’s fancy dinnerware back at home, he didn’t think it was actually usable.

The bathwater dances with bubbles over top, low steam rising from the surface with a dewy bottle of wine and two glasses set next to the window next to it. He’s still staring when Harry comes up behind him and grabs him by the hips. “I went to Lush and got bath bombs,” he whispers.

More the whisper than the words makes chills rise along Zayn’s arms. He laughs. “You make that sound like a come on.”

“Maybe it is.” Harry smacks his ass and moves past him, unbuttoning his shirt as he turns to face him. “You coming or what?”

The water is so hot it scalds but once Zayn is fully settled in, it relaxes his muscles all at once and makes undignified sounds fall from his lips. Harry sits across from him, his hair pulled in a bun with baby hairs curling around his face from the moisture in the air. Zayn stares unabashedly at him while Harry picks through a basket of Lush products, finally dropping a star gazing ball that explodes with silver and gold glitter.

“Well that’ll be a bitch to get off,” Harry says as it fills the water between them. Zayn’s head falls back and thuds against the wall from laughing so hard.

They don’t have to talk much as they lay there, legs slotted together and moving only to lean in for refills from the bottle of wine. Once that finishes though, Zayn moves to straddle Harry’s hips, kissing his red mouth as their bodies slip against each other building heat. Zayn takes out Harry’s hair tie and drops it over the edge of the tub, massaging his scalp and kissing down his neck, licking and biting his collarbones. He can’t get enough. Harry holds him tight, arms around his middle and roaming his back like maybe he can’t either.

Zayn pauses when Harry leans over the edge of the tub to his Lush collection and comes back with a small blue bottle clutched in his hand. Zayn sits back on his thighs and raises an eyebrow. “Ouch, babe.” He has a rush of too many memories of chaffed water sex, a big enough rush that he can say no to Harry even in this moment, even looking like this.

“Silicone based,” Harry says, flipping the bottle between his fingers. “So the water doesn’t ruin it.” He swallows and Zayn traces the arc of his cheekbone with his fingertip. “Only if you want.”

Zayn smiles and kisses Harry -- this man who gets him to break his own hesitations at the drop of a hat. “I do want.”

Harry is gentle when he opens Zayn with his fingers, lips pressed to his neck and a strong arm around his waist. Zayn holds onto his shoulders and bites his skin when it’s too much, kisses his lips instead when it’s all he can think of. They’re careful when Harry lines up, slow and steady as he pushes in, though the lubricant makes them slick even in the water. Zayn’s fingernails scrape his palms as he waits for the sting to settle, biting the hard line of Harry’s neck and trying to adjust his hips. Harry draws long lines along his spine and waits, making low sounds of assurance in Zayn’s ear, kissing him. Zayn nods when the corner turns from uncomfortable to want again, and they move together, splashing water over the edge of the tub despite the slow roll of their bodies.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Harry barely murmurs.

In all the quiet, Zayn still hears him. He pants against Harry’s neck, too close to say that he does too -- That every thought of his day seems to come back to Harry in an endless loop. “I’m right here,” he says instead, as if that’s an answer.

“I can’t stop wanting you.”

Zayn sits up a bit straighter at that, close enough to see Harry’s face, study his clear green eyes and lips. He gets drunk off of him so easily. He kisses him again, holds his face as tight as Harry holds his hips, licks into his mouth that tastes of wine. He doesn’t get the chance to say _, you don’t have to._

…

Fall in fashion means there are a lot of shows and industry parties they both have to show their faces, a lot of schmoozing by Harry bringing his clients through the fancier affairs and some schmoozing by Zayn as he tries to secure campaigns somewhere between the first sip of vodka and the turn of the night towards an actual party. Being ready to launch an idea in under a minute becomes second nature to him and he usually rewards himself with a drink or two when he’s successful. He also likes to watch Harry’s new clients, the confusion on some of their faces over the big parties and the way others seem to dive in head first without a second thought. At the end of the night, regardless, Harry and Zayn end up together again, whether ditching the shiny gala for a dark club or an upscale bar Louis has told them they need to scout for him.

In May, at the beginning of everything, Louis told Zayn Harry didn’t go out as much as the rest of them. Over the summer, Zayn saw it himself, thinking that seeing Harry at a sponsored event was like catching Bigfoot in action. Slowly, though, he’s watched as Harry has opened up more to going, happy to spend the night in rooms he used to seem to want claw his way out of. Zayn doesn’t chalk it up to anything more than a change in preference, doesn’t even for a moment think it might have something to do with him being there too.

Zayn, of course, likes when they don’t go anywhere at all and Harry tells him he does as well, like it might be a secret. They watch a lot of Dateline because Harry is obsessed with murder mysteries and Zayn eases him slowly into Star Wars and takes Harry with him to get a lightsaber tattooed on his finger. Harry thinks it’s stupid but Zayn tells him that he’s not much better as he gets an eagle tattooed on the inside of his forearm. “America, Zayn,” Harry says, wincing at the needle. “America.”

They play a weird amount of Scrabble as well, a game Zayn has only ever played with his great grandmother in a nursing home. Harry loves it, though. Zayn usually has to drink wine while they play and always tries to make every word sexual but he also likes to catch Harry off guard when he scores a triple point word right after spelling out dick. Harry is patient with Zayn’s antics except for the time he sees Zayn with his phone under the table, definitely cheating. Zayn doesn’t even fight it just tosses his phone towards the couch and asks what Harry’s planning to do about it. Punishment never tastes as sweet as that night.

Zayn doesn’t have any board games to press on Harry though he does decidedly like video games far more than Harry can handle. He usually ends up playing with Louis without Harry and Niall who prefer for their minds to be engaged, according to Niall. The one time Harry does play FIFA, he scores a goal and gets so excited he tosses the remote across Louis’ apartment and breaks a lamp. No one asks him to play again. Niall, it turns out, is entirely too competitive when he plays and forfeits the game when he says he can feel his blood pressure rising. Louis and Zayn continue on with business as usual.

...

 

It’s not always perfect. Of course it’s not. Maybe that’s what makes it special, Zayn thinks, that he spends so much time falling for Harry he doesn’t have to pay close attention to the cracks and scratches of this nameless thing they have.

Harry is stubborn. He doesn’t fold easily on anything even something stupid about deciding where to get take out. When he's stressed out about work, or particularly upset about the way something turns out, he picks fights with Zayn. He’ll intentionally do stuff he knows will tick Zayn off, like forgetting their plans or flat out ignoring him when Zayn asks what’s wrong. Harry has a short temper that results in nothing more than being relentlessly passive aggressive. Zayn likes to poke and prod but Harry would much rather not say anything at all until they’re both too mad to have a proper conversation at all.

Harry can be evasive too, dropping off the map even when nothing seems to be wrong between them. He never completely ignores Zayn but he won’t make plans for days on end and sends only one word texts. Zayn doesn’t always understand it and Harry doesn’t try to clue him in or let him know what’s going on. Zayn doesn’t say anything about it because he thinks it’s what Harry needs from him, time to decompress every once in a while, time to be alone. He told Zayn that one of the first nights after they met, that he’s been learning how to be okay being alone. Maybe, Zayn thinks, he should work on it himself.

Zayn, for his part, has a short temper too, and an even shorter fuse on his tongue. Work upsets him, people underestimating him upset him--both tend to make him susceptible to letting Harry get on his nerves. When they’re both in a sour mood they become volatile together, shouting and storming away; two confident egos up against each other, trying to get through things and only sometimes remembering to grab for each other.

Zayn’s mouth gets him in trouble with Harry mostly; he says the things he’s thinking as he thinks them. The fight when he doesn’t like Harry’s choice in suit is mild compared to when he tells Harry he can be an emotionless machine when it comes to his clients. Zayn knows his sharp tongue can lash and sometimes, in a twisted way, he enjoys watching the way his words settle on Harry’s pretty face, the anguish he can cause there. Sometimes, he just likes to prove that he can still ruffle the perfect Harry Styles. He doesn’t know how to apologize for the times he does it, when he says something intentionally mean to watch Harry crack. He tries to apologize in bed with his tongue and his lips rather than words. Harry never seems to notice.

Zayn gets jealous. Maybe not even jealous but weary of Harry and his job. Harry spends the majority of his weeks going on consecutive dates with strangers, wining and dining them across the city. Zayn remembers the way Harry was with him, and it’s hard for him to think about him like that with anyone else -- so many someone elses.

He tells Harry exactly that on a night when they’re naked and sticky in Harry’s bed, chests and cheeks flushed from each other.

Harry laughs, loud. “It’s not at all like I’m going on dates with them.”

“Sometimes it felt like it with me. With like, the places we went and stuff.” Zayn says, keeping his voice strong. He wants Harry to understand and not laugh it off for once.

“Once I realized you weren’t going to dance into my hand, and I actually liked you, I turned on a different kind of charm.” He wraps tighter around Zayn’s back, kisses the side of his shoulder. “Believe me, I’m not taking anyone to rooftop gardens or for milkshakes these days.”

That sentence is the closest they get to admitting how they feel about each other but neither one of them moves to press at the statement any further.

The worst of Zayn’s jealousy is when Harry recruits someone for Verve in the middle of October and Zayn has to watch Harry in a boardroom with Max and the new account manager they’re after. He tries to focus on his own work but then there’s Harry leaning across the table and smirking, his voice carrying through the open doors, his laughter close behind. He puts people under a spell, he did it to Zayn and he sees it as the new guy follows him back down the hallway and past Zayn’s office again. Everyone wants a piece of what he has, the charm that seems easy enough to grab. Somehow, it’s easier to process when Zayn only knows it’s happening, rather than seeing it with his own eyes. Harry is his, even if they don’t say it out loud, he assumes it’s been implied from the start.

Zayn bites his aggression into Harry’s skin a night later, bruises the insides of his thighs and leaves lasting marks against his neck. Harry comes so quickly Zayn is caught by surprise, chasing his own orgasm with his face pressed to Harry’s stomach and his hand tight on his own cock.

“What was that for?” Harry asks once they’ve finished, both breathing harder than usual.

“Just want to be your favorite Verve employee is all,” Zayn says.

Harry is quiet for a second before he pushes Zayn to his back and climbs up on him. He kisses him so sweetly Zayn almost thinks he’s going to cry because of it. “Of course you are,” he says, the sincerity in his eyes saying all sorts of things they’ve never said out loud. “Jason is going to think I’ve been attacked by a wild animal but you’ll still be my favorite.”

Zayn smiles and lets his hands trace down Harry’s back to his ass. He squeezes both hands at once and kisses Harry’s jaw before he whispers, “Well now that you’ve just said his name in my bed, we have to start all over.”

So they do.

...

The end of October curls in with cold winds, and wrap parties line up back to back to finish out the season. Zayn feels like he barely has time to see Harry as they both are busy with work and Harry’s work still doesn’t align with Zayn’s workdays. The first day they have together in nearly a week happens to be Halloween. They are both invited to a GQ party in the evening but they spend the day leading up to it eating candy, watching scary movies, and attempting to carve Harry’s prize pumpkin from his rooftop garden. It’s abnormally small and oddly shaped but they cook the seeds and cut out a Jack-O-Lantern face anyway.  
The party that night is in yet another ballroom, this time with red carpeting and gold walls. Everyone is dressed in some attempt at a Halloween costume though there are a lot of princes, princesses, and vampires to go around. Zayn has gone for the vampire look as well with a red and black striped suit while Harry settled on a wizard, which just means a suit with glittery seams and his sparkly boots. Louis shows up halfway through dressed in a black suit and tells Zayn he’s dressed as sin before he spins away to go talk to someone he sees on the other side of the room.

Zayn is able to hold his own at these things now, working his way through the crowds, still not as effortlessly charming as Harry but getting better. As he talks and shares his contact details with new connections, he catches Harry’s eye from across the room over and over. This has become a game they play at these things, they dance around each other and do their own socializing but they come together at the end; it always makes them want each other more, makes James, or the cab driver depending on the night, highly uncomfortable.

Zayn is caught in a bit of a fantasy involving Harry and the end of the night when a girl with short blonde hair comes up next to him, blood red nails wrapped around a glass of champagne. She’s dressed as an angel, Zayn assumes from the white dress and feathered wings. Zayn looks at her out of the corner of his eye before turning fully towards her. She smiles when she notices him looking.

“You’re with Harry, right?” She doesn’t wait for Zayn to answer. “You know, he once told me his job was slow seduction--getting someone to sign a contract was like getting them to sleep with him at the end of the night. I thought it was a metaphor but here you are--the living, breathing, anti-metaphor.” She smiles slowly, something sinister in her eyes that makes Zayn looks away.

His eyes fall on Harry instead, across the room, talking to a guy just slightly taller than him with his dark hair done in a tall quiff. Zayn knows Harry is about to tell a terrible joke, his dimples are curving in and his lips start to move faster. Nick, Zayn thinks suddenly. That’s Harry’s friend Nick who is a DJ or a host or something along those lines.

“At least until the next one comes along, eh?” The blonde grabs Zayn’s attention again. “Just remember he’s constantly surrounded by people who want to give him everything he wants, even if he doesn’t ask.”

Zayn’s not sure what to say to that but before he can think it through, Louis is bursting between them and pulling him away.

“Shut up, Farrah,” he says over his shoulder. She rolls her eyes after them Zayn tries not to laugh at the whole thing. “She’s been trying to get on Harry’s dick for all five years she’s known him,” Louis intones.

Zayn swallows hard. He tries not to think about all of the people who have thrown themselves at Harry already knowing he’s no saint and is sure to have indulged with some of these people. Not that Zayn is exempt from a past either. Still, so many people seem to want Harry for what he looks like and the shimmery shine of his job without really knowing him at all.

Zayn runs into Harry without paying attention, and Harry tugs him close like it’s exactly what was supposed to happen. He kisses Zayn’s jaw and he smells like rosewater and wine. Suddenly, Zayn doesn’t care about anyone else in the room, anyone who thinks they’ve had everything Harry has to offer.

They can have Harry Styles, executive recruiter with the dimpling smile, if that’s what they think they want. After all, at the end of the night, he’s the one who gets Harry -- all the secret parts no one else knows about, all of the ones he only shares with Zayn.

...

The sun has barely peeked behind the grey clouds lingering over the city when Zayn gets out of bed. It’s always hard pulling himself from the cocoon of Harry’s maroon sheets, and his warm body, to stand on the wooden floor that seems frigid in comparison.

“Why do you always leave at the crack of dawn?”

Harry’s voice makes Zayn turn from where he’s stretching the kinks from his back. “It’s a Tuesday morning and I have to go to work.” He pushes his hand back through his hair and makes it more of a mess than it really needs to be for the subway ride back to his apartment.

“Me too,” Harry says, voice slower with sleep. “But that’s not even for two more hours. Come on, come back.” He lifts the blankets and closes his eyes like he’s done all the convincing he needs.

“I can’t,” Zayn says, dragging his eyes away from the pale skin Harry is exposing with his blanket, the sleepy softness to his hair and puffy face. “I need to get dressed in my own clothes.” Zayn rarely has the foresight to bring his work clothes to Harry’s place, which makes for unpleasantly early mornings when he has to wake up and run home and then to the office.

Harry opens his eyes again and lets the covers drop unceremoniously back over him with a sigh. “You can just borrow something of mine, you know.”

Zayn snorts, “Of course. Shall I wear your floral pants or the matching suit?”

Harry flips him off but he smiles. “It’s sweet you actually think I own a Gucci suit,” he says.

“You don’t own it?” Zayn plays scandalized.

“Borrowed for the gala just like you borrowed a suit,” Harry says. “Just go find something in there and then come back to bed, please. We’re losing precious sleep right now.”

Somehow Zayn has never seen Harry’s closet, never had a reason to; so, it’s the curiosity that makes him open the double doors with flair rather than actually wanting to wear Harry’s clothes.

Given everything else about Harry, he is not at all prepared for the landslide of sheer shirts and black jeans, two shoeboxes and a pair of stray boots that come raining down over his head. He definitely yelps as he tries to dodge everything.

“This is your dirty secret, isn’t it?” Zayn looks at Harry, a glittery pair of YSL boots clutched to his chest. “You have the messiest closet ever and you’re a secret hoarder.”

Harry laughs from where he’s lying on the bed, unmoved though Zayn could have easily died in the melee.  He puts his hands up in surrender. “You finally got me.”

“God, Harry.” Zayn turns back around, “I knew there was no way anyone could logically be as clean as you are.” He glances at him over his shoulder, “Had me thinking you were perfect there for a little bit.”

“It’s been a slow journey to confine the mess to one closet,” he says. “I used to be a bit more cluttered a couple of years ago. I’ve made some changes.”

“You dirty liar,” Zayn grabs for the white suit at his eye level. “You do own a Gucci suit.”

He doesn’t hear whatever Harry says next, too busy pulling the very first suit he ever saw Harry wear from the velvet hanger and tugging it over his shoulders.

“How do I look?” He spins around, fully aware of how ridiculous he must look in only his boxers and a suit jacket. “Do I look like a hotshot recruiter?” He does his best Blue Steel aimed where Harry is still lying on his side grinning. “Come on, love. I know what you want,” he says in a poor mimic of Harry’s accent. It only makes Harry’s smile stretch.

Zayn pulls on a sheer red top next and pretends to salsa dance, very terribly. That makes Harry sit up on his elbows, eyebrows quirking up as he drags his eyes up Zayn’s body. Back at the closet, Zayn’s eyes scan the hangers waiting for something to catch his eye. Something shiny and silky finally does.

“No way,” Zayn says, almost to himself.

“What? Did you find all my skeletons?”

Zayn doesn’t even respond, taking the blue silk robe from the hanger and slipping it over his shoulders. “You actually have a silk robe?” He spins around and then shakes a little, the cold fabric clinging to him.

“Yes,” Harry sits up on the edge of the bed, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Did I ever say that I didn’t?” He looks surprised when Zayn laughs.

“Oh, babe, you don’t even know.” Zayn swooshes the fabric with his hips, “I used to imagine you wearing one of these looking out over New York like it was your kingdom.”

Harry falls back on his forearms, “Did you?” He smirks, “Come tell me more about your wet dreams.”

Zayn laughs him off. “Let’s see, you were the jackass recruiter who didn’t have a heart and you cared more about what you were going to wear next rather than anyone’s feelings.”

Harry falls flat on his back with a groan, “Oh fuck you. I was starting to get hard and everything for a second.”

Zayn blows a kiss before turning back to the closet. “What about this?” He drops the robe to the ground and grabs a black leather jacket from the back corner of the closet. “You never wear this one.”

He spins around with the jacket on to find Harry sitting up on the edge of the bed again, eyes dark.

“I don’t think I could do it justice now,” he says, smirking when his wandering gaze finally meets Zayn’s.

Zayn feels the energy shift between them. He tilts his head and walks toward the bed.

“You look like a fucking model,” Harry says, catching Zayn’s waist with both hands once he’s close enough. He kisses Zayn’s chest and drags his cheek over his skin. “Gorgeous in anything.”

Zayn grabs Harry’s chin between two fingers and makes him look up, kisses him hard and ignores the fact neither of them have been near a toothbrush since they woke up. “Thought you wanted to sleep more?”

Without breaking eye contact Harry lies back on the bed and brings his feet to sit flat with his knees bent. Zayn watches steadily, waiting for what he’ll do next. He’s not expecting it when Harry lifts his legs up straight and sets his ankles on Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn feels the heat darken his eyes as he watches Harry, both of them half hard already.

“I think I changed my mind,” he says. He smiles slowly like he knows exactly what he does to Zayn.

Zayn holds Harry’s calf and nips at his ankle before pulling his legs straighter, his hips closer to the edge of the bed. “You’re fucking shameless aren’t you?” Zayn draws his hands over the top of Harry’s briefs and up to his stomach where his muscles are already shaking. He lets his hands wander over his hips and down around his ass, pressing where Harry is already the most sensitive, where Zayn put in a good effort stretching him the night before with his tongue.

Harry whines high in his throat, his toes point and his muscles contract all at once. “For you, I am.”

Zayn is terribly late to work but two orgasms before nine o’clock means he’s in a great mood to sit in three back-to-back meetings.

...

As slowly as it all started, Zayn starts to feel something slipping. Something he can’t articulate and if he thinks about it for too long he decides it’s not happening at all. Harry’s disappearances seem to linger over longer gaps but Zayn tells himself the end of the season is always a big time for shifts in agencies and there are a lot of open positions to be filled. Harry even goes to LA for a weekend to visit Jeff on a whim but Zayn feels like, between the two of them, he misses Harry more. It’s not as if they don’t still spend their free time together when they can and the electricity between them has never wavered. Still, Zayn can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong even as everything seems to go right.

In darker moments, he replays the night in the bath when Harry told him he couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop wanting him. Zayn didn’t think it was a bad thing but the colder the days get and the more the spaces between them seem to shift oddly, the more he wants to know what it is happening with the two of them.

He’s never needed solid lines but some days he wonders if there’s any lines drawn at all, or if he’s imagining them instead. Most nights it’s as if nothing has changed and Zayn thinks that as long as those nights, those lazy afternoons and gentle mornings, where he doesn’t question what’s between them and only thinks of his heart strings wrapping around Harry’s -- as long as those times outnumber the times he feels in shades of grey then maybe there’s nothing to worry about.

...

“You got tickets to the symphony on the same night Adele is in town?” Harry fish mouths at Zayn clearly not trying to let his face reflect the same tone as his voice. “Really?”

Zayn plays the part well, eyes slipping easily to innocence. “I figured you’d want to go. I know you said you have an assignment with that orchestra magazine coming up and you’re nervous about not knowing enough about technical music.” He shrugs, “I was just trying to help. But if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. It was supposed to be a surprise,” Zayn says, voice quiet on purpose. He half smiles, “Surprise.”

There are so many things going on with Harry’s face Zayn gets worried for a moment. Then he swallows and his jaw clenches once. “Of course I’ll go with you.”

Zayn draws it out a bit longer because he’s almost addicted to seeing how far Harry bends before it’s all too much, before Zayn’s poking at him sends him over the edge. So, he talks about the symphony while they go to dinner and he rambles off facts about some of the musicians over their shared white sauce pizza and wine. Harry, ever the most polite, listens carefully though his responses are limited to nods and slight upward tilts of hums. Zayn’s sure it must be killing him. Unfortunately, there’s only so far he can go before they’re standing in front of the venue swarmed with people and not a symphony in sight.

“It’s next to the Adele show?” Harry pushes a hand back through his hair, his smile is almost manic. “That’s great. Awesome, even.”

Once he’s built it up so high, Zayn isn’t exactly sure how to get down. Luckily, Niall shows up right then, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulling his head down towards his chest. He laughs and Zayn can see the confusion on Harry’s face. Quickly, he tries to figure out if there’s a way to keep it going, if he could get Harry all the way into the venue without realizing.

“You didn’t actually think you were going to a symphony, right?” Louis appears next to Zayn with his arms crossed, looking at Harry. “I mean, you do have a pretty face but come on, Haz.”

Harry fish mouths again, “No symphony?” He looks right at Zayn.

Louis laughs. “No, Casanova. Your boyfriend got the Adele tickets for you. I was in charge of making you jealous and think you weren’t going. Of course there’s no symphony.”

For some reason Zayn’s heart backflips and twists at the mention of boyfriend, the word they don’t use for each other. Harry must not notice or he doesn’t hear it, mind infiltrated with Adele.

“For me?” He takes a step towards Zayn, and then another, holding his face between his cold hands. “You did this for me?”

Zayn doesn’t get a chance to answer before Harry kisses him softly and says, “Thank you,” low enough for only them to hear.

Louis barges through and separates them, “None of this, please. It hurts my eyes.”

Harry rolls his eyes and grabs Zayn’s hand as they walk in together.

...

A post-show high fizzes through all of them as they make their way to a club a few blocks away. Louis mentions something about an after party which Zayn is slowly getting used to in this city-- nothing actually happens unless there’s a pregame and an after party to follow.

The club is one of those that has a guest list but when Louis goes up and says something to the bouncer they’re led right inside. Harry talks about the concert incessantly, asking them if they all saw certain parts and dissecting which song was his favorite. If Zayn knew it would only take Adele to get Harry’s calm and collected facade to shatter, he might have suggested it in the spring.

“He’s a proper fanboy about it,” Louis yells in Zayn’s ear as they’re led to the second level of the club. “Has been since we were teenagers.”

The second floor of the club is cast in a dark blue light with black couches and pulsing music. Zayn recognizes most of the people from other events but there are still a few faces he’s never seen. He loses track of Harry in the crowd though he doesn’t mind once he sees Niall’s friend Leeso and her boyfriend in one of the booths. He’s happy enough to stay low-key with them, catching up and drinking vodka crans.

It strikes him out of nowhere as he registers how happy he is. There’s no catalyst other than listening to Leeso talk about a show she was at the week before when Zayn is flooded with warmth. It’s peculiar to have such a strong realization so suddenly and Zayn has to pinch the inside of his wrist to keep from grinning like a fool.

Perhaps he should slow down on the vodka.

He excuses himself a while later to go to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Niall sitting on a table with a girl between his legs, her hands resting on his thighs. She has fiery red hair and Zayn recognizes her as Samantha, the girl who believed fate would have their way with them. It turns out it did because a few weeks back she came into his office with some financial documents from the law firm where she’s interning. Zayn hasn’t met her in person yet but he’s heard enough about her to feel like he has.

He dries his hands on his pants as he comes back to the main room and notices Harry in a swarm of people, talking and laughing without any of the tense lines he’s had before. Zayn even recognizes one of the guys from the night at the first gala when Jeff pulled Harry back. Now they’re shoulder to shoulder.

“He seems happy.”

Zayn jumps at the voice, feeling caught until he remembers he has every right to stare at Harry. His heart settles as he turns to the voice just beyond his shoulder, a woman with dark brown hair who has the kind of face you see on the street and wonder how it’s so effortless. She smiles at Zayn.

“Sorry if I scared you. Just, he looks like he did after he graduated college. You know, before everything.”

“Everything?” Zayn repeats, eyebrows pulling together.

She smirks but there’s no malice there. “With Ethan and Isabelle, I mean. Just that and everything around that time, I guess.” She motions around like he knows what everything encapsulates.

Zayn has no idea what she’s talking about, can’t remember hearing either name before. He swallows and nods, not letting it on. “I’m glad.”

He realizes he just took credit for Harry’s happiness but the woman is already moving away from him before he can clarify. Maybe he is, though. When he met Harry, he was closed off and meticulous; he didn’t seem to trust anyone but the people he’s known for years. Zayn saw through it even then. He poked and prodded until he got what was underneath and he fell hard for what he found. Now, maybe, it’s just showing to everyone else.

He migrates around until he ends up back with Louis near the bar, the party at the odd time of stretching and slowing as people stop arriving all together and slowly start to peel off to go back where they belong. They haven’t hit the peeling off part quite yet, bodies are still pressed together everywhere Zayn glances, the smell of clean sweat, alcohol and perfume heavy in the air. He’s lost Harry again but he doesn’t worry so much about that anymore, he knows he’ll find him in the end.

Louis grabs Zayn around the shoulders with one arm and pulls him in close.  “Zayno, how are you?”

“Good, good.” Zayn laughs and tries to extricate himself from under Louis’ arm.

“I’m going out for a smoke. You in?”

Zayn knows Louis smokes, he’s joined him a couple of times before though he usually stops himself from participating to avoid falling into the trap again--the one he spent two years and a shit ton of Nicorette patches getting out of. It’s harder to say no when he’s drunk and he can say it’s only social. He nods.

Outside is colder than he expects and he wishes he had grabbed his jacket from inside. He’s not sure where his coat is exactly though, which is the problem; Harry took it somewhere when they walked in but that was when Zayn saw Leeso and lost track of everything else. He blows on his hands to warm them before Louis hands him a cigarette and he leans in to light it. The first drag is a thousand pinpricks against his lungs but he doesn’t cough, holds his breath as long as he can before he exhales.

“Harry seemed surprised,” Louis says, blowing a line of smoke straight up into the night.

Zayn laughs. He twirls the cigarette between his fingers and it feels familiar like an ache. “He definitely thought I was taking him to the symphony all through dinner. I was kind waiting for him to lose it.”

Louis smirks. “He’s got a weird sense of resistance when it comes to reacting outright, you know? He has everything planned from the walk up to how he’ll fall in the end.”

Zayn nods over another drag. “Nail on the head my friend.” He’s admired it about Harry since they met, even when it gets under his skin, he’s nothing if not prepared for everything.

They’re quiet for a few moments, enjoying the smoke and silence, and then because Zayn can’t bite his tongue and he’s already got vodka in his veins, he asks. “Who’s Isabelle?” He forgets to ask about Ethan.

Louis looks at him and squints, “How do you know her?”

Zayn’s not sure if he should lie, if she’s even that important at all. “I overheard her name and I didn’t recognize it.” Not a full truth, then.

“She died. A couple of years ago.”

“Oh.” Zayn is unsure of how to react. “I’m sorry.”

Louis laughs, “Don’t apologize to me, I didn’t know her.” He coughs, “Not that my not knowing her should lessen her memory or anything.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, “I appreciate the effort of being politically correct.” Louis snorts.

“I can’t speak much on her, I wasn’t here and this is just what Harry and Ni have told me.” Louis takes another pull from the cigarette and holds the smoke. Zayn waits. Finally, he exhales. “When they graduated college, Harry had a lot of older friends he would hang out with, like obsessively almost. He shut Niall out for a while because he was so busy with his new pals.”

The surprise must show on his face because Louis smirks.

He swipes his hand through the air, “Water under the bridge now, trust me.”

Zayn nods. He lifts his cigarette again, surprised to see his hand shaking.

“This group he was friends with was big on the socialite scene in the city,” Louis says. “According to what I’ve heard, it was a lot of heirs and heiresses, kids of business royalty running around with mum’s and dad’s money, things like that.”

Zayn had gotten the idea Harry made it this far almost entirely on his own, he’d mentioned debt from college on more than one occasion.

“Not Harry,” Louis says as if Zayn’s spoken out loud. “He barely had enough to make ends meet when he first got his job but they didn’t care.” He smirks, “Not sure if you’ve noticed but Harry has a very posh demeanor.”

Zayn snorts. “That and he’s charming.” There’s a slice of warmth in his voice he can’t disguise.

“They liked that about him, I guess. The charm and the way he talks and acts. They took him right in with the rest of them like a trust fund baby. They probably liked him as a person too,” he smiles, “He has that effect on people thought I like to pretend he’s just annoying.”

Zayn has a renewed appreciation for Louis and Harry’s friendship, the way they ground each other so easily.

Louis blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “This group, or whatever, was pretty hard in the party scene as well. Pills, powder, alcohol, sex, the whole thing. He used to call me and tell me stories and I was just in shock half the time. He said it was fun and he was being safe.” He shrugs and slots the cigarette between his lips.

Zayn remembers his own cigarette and takes another drag to settle his nerves. He’s still not sure where Louis’ story is going.

“And then they’re all out one night and there’s a bad batch of molly.” Louis shrugs like it is what it is.

Zayn’s not a stranger to drugs, though he hasn’t touched harder stuff in a couple of years since when it was still excusable as just being young and stupid.

“Three of them ended up in the hospital from it, two girls and a guy. Isabelle was one of them.” He motions his hand as if for Zayn to fill in the blanks.

“She died.”

“Yep.” Louis pops the ‘p’. “Harry called Niall from the hospital where they were all waiting, the first time they’d talked in three months, mind you. Niall says when he got there to pick him up it was awful. A bunch of kids who thought they were hot shit crying in the lobby and an older couple holding themselves up against the front counter, yelling at the group of younger people.”

Zayn shakes his head and looks down at his shiny black shoes. He doesn’t like to picture things like that, when people’s lives crash around them and everyone watches. Louis must not either.

“Niall found Harry sitting in a chair with red-rimmed eyes and he thought he was high for a minute, I guess. But Harry hugged him, knocked the breath out of him according to Niall.“ Louis smiles and then it fades. “He was taking antibiotics for hay fever so he wasn’t drinking or anything that night. It fucked him up.”

Zayn sighs and it feels like tiny shards. “He thought it was his fault didn’t he?” It’s so fitting for Harry, it clicks like a puzzle piece.

Louis looks over at him. “You know him better than I thought.” He shifts back to staring at the street. “He thinks he should have seen it coming. As if he can tell a bad pill from a good one.” His voice goes up high at the end, incredulous. “It all changed after that,” he says. “He split from that whole group almost immediately and started trying to hold everything a lot closer to him. I think he figured if he could control everything, nothing else would go wrong again.”

All told, it’s not as bad as Zayn had built up. With a girl’s life cut short, he automatically feels like an asshole and takes it back.

“By the time I moved here, I thought he’d died.” Louis laughs and Zayn wonders if he realizes the insensitivity of his words. “There was no light behind his eyes anymore, like honestly. He’d shut everything down so the only things left were the ones he could calculate. He started to become more of himself over the past year especially finding his footing at work, but it was nothing compared to the change when he met you.”

Zayn looks over, his neck cracks from the sudden movement. The cigarette is forgotten, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m serious. He’s more like the way he was before all the shit went down. Like, happy enough everyone can touch it. Contagious.”

The door swings open behind them and Zayn drops his cigarette and squashes it with his foot on instinct. He may be an adult and thousands of miles from his mum and aunts but he’s got the habit of hiding stamped on all sides of his brain.

It’s just Harry, though.

His mouth is shiny and red from the alcohol and his eyes are wide as he looks between them. “Everyone’s leaving,” he says. His voice somehow warms the cold night. “So I figured we should go.” He holds up Zayn’s jacket with a small smile, hesitant.

Zayn is met with a heart rush just from looking at him.  “Thanks, babe,” he says, reaching for the jacket. He slides it on, the warmth of it more effective than Harry’s voice, despite what his mind tells him.

Louis claps Zayn on the shoulder, “I better make sure Nialler is okay in there.”

“I think he’s still talking to Sam,” Harry says. His gaze is slow to leave Zayn and land on Louis. He must have indulged in just as much vodka as Zayn did.

“Nice.” Louis fist pumps and kisses Harry on the cheek.

For some reason it makes Zayn laugh as Louis disappears back in the side door.

“Hey, you.” Harry smiles as he comes closer and tugs Zayn to meet him halfway.

“Hey, stranger.” Zayn kisses just under his jaw.

Harry lets him before he tilts his head and kisses Zayn on the mouth instead, slow and tasting exactly like vodka lemonade. Zayn was wrong before; kissing Harry is the perfect kind of heat to fight the cold November air. He leans in further and opens his mouth more, anything to get closer. If he could unzip Harry’s body and climb inside, he’d build his home right behind his heart.

Harry pulls back and kisses the corner of Zayn’s lips and then the other. “I know you were smoking,” he whispers. Zayn’s cheeks flush for no reason. “Gross.” He kisses Zayn again, one hand in his hair, his thumb slotted under his ear. “I don’t think I care.” Zayn laughs against his mouth and kisses him back, cold air whirring around them and turning their ears red.

He forgets to ask about Ethan.

...

Moonlight dances through the windows in Zayn’s apartment when they walk in and Zayn likes it too much to ruin it by turning on the lights. They undress each other in the middle of the floor, leaving a muddled heap of their clothes. Zayn can’t keep his hands still, roaming over the expanse of Harry’s back and then over his stomach, his thighs and his hips. His mouth follows for as long as Harry can stand it before they’re both falling back into Zayn’s bed without once letting go of each other.

They make out aimlessly just to feel each other; at least until feeling is too much and their hips roll, begging for friction. Zayn opens Harry up quicker than usual, wanting to finally feel him more than anything else.

He’s distracted as he tries to tear the foil on the condom, Harry who had been shaking and begging a moment ago, sits up and sucks a mark onto Zayn’s neck, licks the sensitive skin under his ear. All this time has effectively taught him what makes Zayn loses control. Finally, Zayn gets the package torn and pushes Harry back down by his shoulders, admiring the way his hair splays over the pillow and he smiles slowly, knowing exactly what’s coming.

Zayn leans forward to kiss him overwhelmed by the need to, holding Harry’s face steady as he opens his lips with his tongue, licks any remnants of the taste of vodka.

“Come on, Zayn,” Harry gasps, turning his head to the side. He makes a pretty sound when Zayn’s lips fall to his neck. “Don’t tease tonight.”

Zayn can’t help but smile as he sits back up, hands drawing patterns across Harry’s chest while he looks down at him. “You know I love that part.” He smooths Harry’s hair from his forehead and kisses him, “Not tonight, though. Want to feel you.”

He holds Harry’s hips tight enough to bruise in the best way as he pushes in, feels Harry’s muscles pulling him in tighter, his hands reaching up to hold Zayn however he can, fingers curling into his hair. Zayn watches between them, the way Harry’s stomach moves and their hips press and pull together. He kisses Harry when it becomes even too much to watch.

Zayn bites his bottom lip as he shifts his hips over and over, finally releasing his mouth into a smile when Harry’s whole body goes taut, his breath punched out in a moan. Zayn repeats the motion again, reaching for Harry’s hand to hold, pressing it back against the pillow as he kisses him. Their lips are sloppy and they can’t figure out how to match so they end up breathing against each other, spitting on each other in the process.

“Don’t stop,” Harry whispers, and then, “Zayn,” much louder when he pauses like he just might.

Zayn catches his lips in a kiss to quiet him. He holds himself up to watch Harry’s face when he comes, the emotions and the way his lips part so perfectly as he falls apart, eyes rolling back and then closing. Zayn reaches between them for his cock and pulls Harry through it, come spurting in hot ropes over his fingers and down the side of his hand.

He tries to wait for Harry to open his eyes again but the heat collecting in his stomach is no match, pulsing and licking at his ribs. He sits back slowly to pull out, slipping the condom off to get a hand on himself. The relief of his own touch makes him whine out and the sound sends Harry’s eyelashes fluttering, mouth curving into a smile. He sits up and reaches for Zayn, finds his landing spot with his face pressed to Zayn’s neck. He pushes Zayn’s hand out of the way to make room for his own, and his grasp, sure and strong, has Zayn making the same sound again but louder, his whole body vibrating with need.

His focus narrows as his lips press to Harry’s hair and he holds onto him like he’s disappearing, listening to nothing except Harry’s pants and sweet words.

“Come for me, gorgeous. Let me see,” Harry whispers, low and rumbling, right against his ear.

Everything collects in a twisted ball in Zayn’s stomach, closer and tighter until it explodes, every muscle releasing at once so he’s only held up by Harry, breathing in the smell of his Lavender shampoo. Harry’s not much more stable and they fall over on the bed together laughing, a sticky, sweaty mess.

...

The morning is slow and easy the way a Sunday should be. The cold light streaming in through the window is no match for the warmth under the duvet, Zayn and Harry squished together with every possible inch of heated skin touching.

Zayn wakes first to use the bathroom but slips back into his spot once he’s done, unable to ignore the chance to go back to sleep for a while longer. He wakes again sometime later to see Harry hasn’t moved much, only rolling to his back, one hand flung up over his head. Zayn rises up onto his elbow to push his fingers back through Harry’s hair and watch his sleeping face. He uses one finger to trace lightly under Harry’s eyes and then down over his cheekbones, along his jaw. He smirks when he sees Harry’s lips quirk before going back to neutral. Zayn leans in further to kiss him once.

“I know you’re awake,” Zayn whispers.

“No you don’t,” Harry whispers back, keeping his eyes closed.

Zayn’s fingers trace over the corners of his mouth, “I saw your lips move.”

Harry blinks his eyes open then, “Are we on an episode of Dateline?”

Zayn laughs and he can feel his nose scrunch as he scratches through Harry’s hair again. “Here is where I would say, ‘No, but we’re about to be,’ before I stab you.”

Harry’s laughter consumes his whole body as he curls back into Zayn. “Very romantic,” he says into Zayn’s neck once he settles. His breath tickles but Zayn doesn’t ask him to move especially once Harry starts humming when Zayn plays with his hair again.

Zayn’s mind wanders in the silence. Back to the night before, back to talking to Louis. It plays slowly in his memory the dips and curves of the conversation of Harry’s past. In the back of his mind, the kind of thought that registers slowly before pressing to the forefront, he wishes he would have heard it all from Harry. All of the times he feels as if Harry is keeping secrets and he finally finds out one -- from someone else. Of course the way Zayn’s mind works, is thoughts drift from the back to the front and then, rather than letting it settle or stew, it slips right between his lips.

“Why have you never told me about Isabelle?” He bites his tongue too late, already hearing the ringing accusation in his voice.

Harry pulls back from him slowly, his face one of gentle confusion. “What?”

Zayn’s not sure exactly where to go next, how much to say. “Louis and I were talking about her last night. I’d never heard of her.”

“What about her though?” Harry sits up slowly, one leg bent with his foot under his thigh. There’s a whoosh of cold air between their bodies. “How does that even come up in the first place?”

“Someone mentioned her to me and so I asked Louis who she was. It’s not a big deal or anything.”

Harry goes perfectly still as his face goes eerily blank. “You could have asked me.”

Zayn knows he still has time to back himself into an apology and tell Harry he will ask him next time but he doesn’t take the time to try. “I don’t think you would have told me.” It comes quieter than he means. Still, Zayn’s pretty sure Harry can hear him clearly in the quiet apartment.

Harry leans in, “What?”

“I could have asked you who she was,” Zayn says, drawing his chin higher, voice stronger, “But I don’t think you would have told me.”

Harry blinks a couple of times before he asks, “So you thought talking behind my back was better?”

“It wasn’t talking behind your back, Harry. I had a question and Louis answered for me.” Zayn sits up and rolls his eyes in the process; Harry doesn’t seem to like that.

“Or is it that you don’t trust me and you felt like you had to ask someone else?”

There’s an accusation in his voice, one Zayn didn’t see coming. Unwittingly, he feels the first lingering warmth of something akin to anger but without the passion. Frustration. “I trust you with everything, Harry. The problem is that you trust me with nothing. You weren’t going to tell me about her by choice and even if I asked, you still wouldn’t. You’re the one with the trust issue.”

Suddenly, everything feels a little bit bigger than just a girl who died.

Harry pushes the covers off his legs, “How is not telling you about some girl suddenly my trust issue?” He narrows his eyes at Zayn and Zayn knows then that this is very thin ice.  

“Because it hurt you. It hurt enough that the people you love noticed and worried about you.” Zayn bites the corner of his lip and gentles his voice though he can still hear a touch of pleading there. “I don’t want to have to hear about something like that from someone else. But I had to. You never told me and I was curious when I heard her name.”

The sound that comes out of Harry’s mouth on paper is a laugh. To Zayn’s ears it has spikes and makes his stomach drop. “You never asked me, though.”

Part of Zayn can’t believe they’re sitting in bed having this conversation-- if he wouldn’t have said anything they’d still be tracing aimless circles on each other’s skin. Now, Zayn’s skin crawls. “Well, shit. I didn’t realize all questions about you had to be approved first. Maybe open up voluntarily sometime and there wouldn’t be so many.”

Harry’s lips twitch and he rolls his eyes.

“Very mature, Harry.” He ignores the fact he did it first.

Harry gets up off the bed and Zayn stays put. He goes to the middle of the room and grabs his pants from the floor shaking them out. “I don’t just spill my life’s story unprompted, Zayn. Not everyone cares about the trials and tribulations of Harry Styles.”

Zayn chucks a pillow off the bed. It hits the wall with a dull thump. “Harry, I’m telling you right now that I do care. I want to be the one to know.”

Harry throws his arms out wide, dropping his pants to the ground again. “What the fuck is it you want to know so badly?”

“Your secrets, you asshole.” Zayn yells it and then it lingers there like a stain.

Harry picks up the pants and pulls them up his legs buttoning and zipping them slowly. Zayn stays quiet, waiting. Harry looks up and he’s smiling but it’s all wrong. “I don’t have any secrets, Zayn.”

“Bullshit, Harry. Everyone does.” Zayn bites the words. “Your friend died and I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about it first. I guess I was hoping you might have just told me about something that big happening in your life but you never open up, you won’t let me in.”

Harry laughs again, bending at his waist to grab for his belt and loop it through his jeans. Zayn doesn’t even remember taking it off of him in the heated blur of the night before. “It’s not about that. My _friend.”_ He laughs over the final word.

“Is it about Ethan, then?” Zayn feels vicious, pointing when Harry looks up at him. “Bet you didn’t think I knew that name, huh, babe?”

Harry sneers, “Did Louis tell you about him, too?”

Zayn holds eye contact, “He doesn’t have to. You’re going to. All I have to do is ask, right?” He tilts his head, makes his voice even like they’re deciding on brunch. God knows in some alternate universe they would be right now. “Who is Ethan, Harry? Don’t lie.”  

Harry has his shirt halfway over his shoulders -- black and white stripes -- and he waits until it’s on fully before he speaks.  “Not telling doesn’t mean I’m lying, Zayn.”

“Not telling means you don’t fucking trust me. Look at that! We’ve gone full circle.”

Harry laughs and it’s jagged again, Zayn hates it.

“Get out, Harry.”

Harry stops suddenly and levels his stare, jaw clenched.

“Tell me why this is such a game to you or get the fuck out.” Zayn doesn’t even recognize his own voice.

“It’s not a game, Zayn.” Harry scoffs and makes it sound like he’s talking to a child.

“Tell me who the fuck Ethan is, then.” Last night, Zayn didn’t care enough about Ethan to ask. Now he thinks it may be the only thing he wants to know.

Harry pulls at his hair, “Nothing! It was nothing. We dated and now we don’t. That’s it.”

“What is your problem?” Zayn’s eyes are so wide he can feel a muscle twitch. He’s yelling and his voice cracks. “What the fuck is all of this about, then? Why didn’t you just tell me this shit two minutes ago when I asked?”

“It’s about me.” Harry can yell too, it turns out. “It’s about me graduating college and drowning myself in cool friends, a sweet job, and a guy. Going so far under I didn’t know who I was only that other people thought I was something special and they all wanted a piece of me. Living from one sensation to the next without thinking about a goddamn thing. Then a girl fucking died in front of me and I resurfaced long enough to see my friends didn’t actually like me for me and neither did the guy I let fuck me.”

That is enough to make Zayn wince.

“They liked the illusion of me, the version that did a casual line on the weekends and had my name on every guest list across this city. They never cared about me. I didn’t find out until Isabelle died and I felt like it was my fault and actually needed someone. No one was there for me. Not my friends, definitely not Ethan.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say but his body feels weak, like throwing all of this out between them is doing irreparable damage.

“It’s not about Isabelle or fucking Ethan.” Harry spits his name and Zayn rolls his eyes at him again. “It’s about me and what I willingly let myself become. A numb socialite everyone wanted to know but no one wanted to care about.”

They exchange stares, Zayn unwilling to fold and Harry with fire in his eyes, his chest heaving.

“I don’t let anything consume me anymore because I promised I would never wake up again and wonder what the fuck I’ve been doing with my life. I don’t let myself drown anymore so, I make sure I can control everything.” He raises an eyebrow to fake nonchalance; Zayn can still see the red in his cheeks and down his bare chest. “There you go, Zayn. Is that the big secret you wanted? You wanted to know if I could break?” Harry snarls and starts buttoning his shirt from the bottom. “There's your answer. I'm as human as the next guy. Sorry there's not some great tragedy to go with it. It’s just little fucked up me.”

Zayn flexes his jaw, unsure where to even begin. “I didn't ask for a tragedy. I asked for the truth.”

“And there it is. This is what you wanted isn’t it? You had to know what was underneath. You can never take anything at face value. You have to push and push until things break and I’ve known that since we met. I just didn’t realize that all this time you were trying to break me. Congratulations.”

Zayn can't remember how they got here or why everything is turned on him. Harry is the one with the problem.

“I just asked you to trust me,” Zayn repeats the same thing again and spins it on Harry. “You never did. All of that, you could have told me, I wouldn’t have ran, and you never did.” He points at Harry. “You don’t trust me.”

Harry’s eyes are wild as he stares at Zayn, like he might want to throw a pillow or two himself. “Because I was embarrassed about it? Ashamed of where I've been, maybe? Happy where I am? Why is that not enough for you?”

Zayn’s heart cracks. “It is Harry. But I need you to trust in me. I need to be your partner.”

“No, you just needed to know I wasn't as strong as you. You needed to poke and prod until you got your answers and you didn’t pay attention to the fact that some things take time. You didn’t trust that I was trying my best to let you in.

This is definitely not what Zayn wanted to happen when he started this, when he asked about some girl. His lips part but instead of an apology and talking everything back down to a point where they can be reasonable, he snorts. “Some way you have of showing it.”

Harry’s eyes go empty, the fire extinguished in a blink, and then he nods as if making a sudden realization. He picks up his shoes and puts his wallet in his back pocket. Quietly, he says, “Now, I believe you asked me to leave.”

Zayn wants to fight more. He wants to tell Harry that he doesn’t get to be the victim, that he never told Zayn how he felt about him, that Zayn didn’t know he was trying to trust him because he never mentioned a thing about it, that Zayn isn’t clairvoyant and never claimed to be, that he didn’t push on purpose but that Harry never gave him a fucking clue. He wants to tell Harry that he hates what happened to him, that those people who called themselves his friends are scum and that Harry is so much more than a numb socialite.

Instead, his pride wilting in his chest, Zayn raises his chin and meets Harry’s gaze. “Yeah. I did.”

He doesn’t get a chance to say any of the things boiling inside of him, he just stares at Harry’s back and then lets the echo of the door slamming ring through his ears like retribution.

...


	6. V

Of the many places Zayn imagined he would be on that Sunday afternoon, sitting in his bed with a bottle of whiskey wasn’t at the top of his list. He almost finds it funny that after a few hours pass and his bones go numb, he starts checking his phone for a call or text from Harry. Nothing comes. He doesn’t know why he thought it would. He drinks more and flings his phone from the bed. He drinks until the name Harry loses all meaning.

Even that’s a lie.

Every time he merely thinks it, it’s like a pin prick to the middle of his heart.

It hurts again on Monday morning when he wakes up hungover. That hurts first. Once he remembers everything that happened the day before, that hurt registers too and there is anger tucked in between. The difference is the aching in his head and stomach goes away with electrolytes and pain killers. The other one doesn’t weaken, it strikes again and again with every realization.

He works from home that day, his laptop set up on his kitchen counter. He doesn’t shower but he doesn’t drink any more whiskey either. He tries his best not to think about Harry Styles.

Tuesday he goes into work. He almost laughs because it feels like his world is cracking down the middle and he can’t do anything to stop it but everyone else’s world is holding perfectly still. The train comes two minutes late as usual, the receptionist says the same good morning she always does, and Kris drops off a stack of papers in Zayn’s inbox and tells him he looks like shit. Nothing has changed and yet he wants to stand on his desk and scream that everything has. There’s no point, though. No one else cares. Their world, after all, is just fine.

And so it goes.

As two days progress into a weekend and then a full week of complete silence between them, Zayn begins to realize he and Harry are not in an ordinary fight. They’ve argued before but never full blown and when one of them leaves in the heat of the moment, they always come back. As far as Zayn knows, though, neither one of them has ever told the other to leave. That was all him.

He doesn’t know where to start and he’s too stubborn to be the first to reach out so he settles himself into avoidance. As long as he doesn’t face it head on, confront it for what it is, he can pretend it’s any other disagreement--not one that seems to have broken everything to pieces.

It’s easiest to ignore everything while he’s at work and when he just has to run himself into the ground with projects so that he’s too busy and scattered to spare a thought. He maintains a two block radius around Harry’s office during the day and doesn’t go to their shared favorite places -- Shake Shack or the smoothie place he never actually knew the name of. They were Harry’s favorites before they were his; so, like a custody battle, he gives them back without even telling.

On the subway he keeps his head down, on the off chance they’ve taken the same train. For days he fields invites to dinner parties, releases, and previews based on whether he thinks Harry will be there. If he does, if it sounds remotely like something he’ll be at, he throws away the invite or sends someone else in his place without thinking about it. It never crosses his mind as being childish; he sees it only as self-preservation.

At home, it’s harder. Harry has infiltrated every last part of his apartment from a box of almond milk in the fridge to his toothbrush on the counter in the bathroom. His clothes sit on the floor in the discarded formation they were taken off in. Zayn eventually kicks them towards the corner in a heap. He adds Harry’s silk bomber jacket to the pile -- the one that he stole from him and had been wearing as of late. He throws out the almond milk and the two vanilla yogurts Harry likes. Zayn has started to like them too but that’s not the point.

For the first week, he sleeps in his sheets and lets the smell of Harry’s shampoo on the second pillow act as a safety blanket. And then Harry doesn’t call him and Zayn washes the sheets in a near fit or rage to erase all traces of his scent. He’s sweating by the time he finishes making the bed again and he feels empty inside. Rage, he knows, is unwarranted when he continues to pretend he’s done nothing wrong.

Once he clears traces of Harry from his apartment, tucks the toothbrush in a drawer and kicks at the pile of clothes so they hide under his bed instead, it becomes easier. He tries his best to forget that Harry helped to build the bed he sleeps in every night and the bruised marks in the walls from the bed posts slapping the same spots over and over are their doing as well.

He still can’t figure out how they went from the exhilaration and electricity of Saturday night to a world where they don’t speak at all, where Zayn can’t even articulate if they’re together still. On some level, a bitter one, he can acknowledge the blurred lines are the same as they’ve always been. Neither one of them ever drew a hard line in the sand and said where they stood. The first time they used the term boyfriend it didn’t even come from their own lips.

Only sparingly does he wonder how Harry feels about it. He doesn’t have to wonder if he cares, he saw Harry’s face when he left and he knows he hurt him, badly. He does wonder if Harry has raw emotion like Zayn or if he has settled into a rut of regularity -- after all, Zayn knows he’s not the first person to pull the rug out from underneath him.

Beneath all of the other shit, Zayn can admit, only to himself and in quieter moments, that he misses Harry. He’s angry and upset and he doesn’t want to look at Harry’s face or hear his voice; he wants his space as much as he did the second he resigned himself to this avoidance. But in the in between, the spaces between his organs the seams of his skin, he misses Harry like an ache that won’t go away. An itch on the tissue of his heart that only burrows further the more days pass by.

...

The first big preview show Zayn can’t avoid comes ten days after he last spoke to Harry. This is how he keeps time now, before Harry and after Harry. He hates it.

He spends most of the day leading up to the show pretending he won’t have to go until Kris drops by his office and reminds him that lack of interest in the shows could result in a lack of designers and other agencies knocking down their door for campaigns. It’s for the good of his job, of Verve, that he goes at all, then.

First, he has to talk himself in to going to see Robyn for a suit since he doesn’t have any other stylists on call. He sends her a text before he shows up, gives her time to tell him to get away and to take Harry’s side but she doesn’t. She hugs him warmly when she sees him and starts in on stories to catch him up on what she’s been up to -- fittings for the ballet theater and outfits for a movie premiere. Zayn doesn’t ask her if she’s seen Harry, if she knows. He doesn’t want to linger over what might happen if, or when, she does, if he’ll lose another part of the city, of his life, that belonged to Harry first.

The event is in a hotel he hasn’t been to but when the Verve car drops him off, he already knows the shtick. He follows the herds of people towards the designated ballroom, avoiding the red carpet completely as per usual. One of the production assistants shows him to his seat, strangers he doesn’t know sit on either side of him.

His legs bounce uncontrollably as he stares at the first two rows across the runway, the two rows where Harry always sits. Acid builds in his stomach, slippery and thick. Once it starts to come up and towards his throat he excuses himself to the restroom. He tries to give himself a mental pep talk while looking in the mirror. The bathroom door opens and he runs into one of the stalls, locking the door. He narrowly stops himself from pulling his feet up on the toilet seat.

Whoever it is that comes in, takes a piss and washes their hands before they leave. Zayn rests his forehead on his knees and tries not to lose it altogether. Not once did he think Harry Styles would drive him to hide in a bathroom stall like a sixteen year old nervous for prom.

The show starts before Zayn makes it back to his seat but he decides he prefers it that way as he sneaks in under the radar. There are no lights over the audience but still, he looks for Harry; even in the dark he thinks he could find him. He never does.

Outside and after the mildly boring show, the wind is biting. Zayn wraps his coat around himself tighter as he tries to find the car from Verve--he’s already forgotten the driver’s name. Barely anyone else has left the show yet, no one likes to skip the after party, but Zayn doesn’t want to stay. The one person who ever made these things bearable, who he looked forward to leaving with, is the last person Zayn even wants to see. He finds his driver right as he remembers her name, Megan, and he manages to greet her with it as he gets in the backseat. She seems pleased.

“Where to, Mr. Malik?”

In the distorted sensation of watching himself from above, Zayn hears his voice as he rattles off an address.

“28?” Megan meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, “I’ve heard nothing but good things.”

Zayn’s smile is tight as he leans back in his seat. It’s about time he could use a friend.

...

“Look who it fucking is.”

Zayn tenses as he gets to the top of the stairs and looks towards the voice, relaxing once he sees Louis smile, teeth catching on the light behind the bar. Zayn does an obligatory glance over the rest of the bar but comes up empty of more familiar faces. Wednesday night at ten isn’t exactly a prime social hour.

“Thought you might have died for a little bit there,” Louis says taking out two glasses from underneath the bar. Somehow he must be able to see beyond Zayn’s smile as he walks towards him.  “Then you show up at my bar in a fucking Louis Vuitton suit.”

“Had a thing,” Zayn says. “You know how it is.”

“A thing?” Louis turns towards the liquor behind him and runs his fingertips along the bottles before settling on one. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost two fucking weeks, man.”

Zayn swallows, watching the stream of dark brown liquid being poured into the glass in front of him. He’s not sure what to say when he looks up, so, throat tight, he just shrugs.

Louis purses his lips and nods as if he understands. He sets the bottle back on the bar and motions to Zayn’s glass. “On the house.”

“You’re a gem,” Zayn says. He takes a sip from the glass and lets it burns all the way down.

Louis glances around before he lifts his own glass to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Zayn laughs, “Don’t have anyone to tell.”

Louis sets his glass down and stares at Zayn for a beat as if deciding what to say. “I don’t know anything, by the way.”

“Cutting right to the chase, are you?” Zayn lifts his glass to take another drink, longer this time.

“Am I supposed to pretend like I don’t know why you’re here?” Louis leans his elbows on the bar.

“I’m not here because of him,” Zayn says. He twists his glass. “I do actually like you as a human, you know.”

Louis smirks, “It can be hard not to.”

They’re both quiet as they finish the last drink of what is in their glass. Louis pours them each another.

“You don’t know what happened, then?” Zayn asks while Louis’ focus is on not spilling anything on the bar top. For ten days he hasn’t talked about Harry, about what happened, to anyone. He feels like a baby deer standing up for the first time, legs shaking, to bring it up now.

“Only vaguely from what Niall has told me.” Louis grabs the rag to sop up part of where he’s spilt from the bottle. “Harry refuses to speak to me directly about it. From what I understand, it was not my place to tell you what I did. ” He grins as if he’s told a joke.

Zayn waits for him to keep going, he’s sure he has more to say.

“I think it’s more out of the principle of it. He just didn’t want me to tell you first.”

“It wasn’t even bad,” Zayn says, running a hand back through his hair. He laughs. “When it comes down to it that girl isn’t even the point.”

Louis’ lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “I think he knows that too because he finally started talking to me again, he’s usually just passive aggressive when he’s pissed at me.”

“Join the club,” Zayn says, raising his glass. He doesn’t mention that Harry isn’t even being passive aggressive with him at this point, they’re both just acting as if the other doesn’t exist. He’s not sure if there’s a term for that other than playing pretend. “So, you’ve seen him then?”

Louis nods, “Yeah, he came by my place last night actually. We didn’t talk about you,” he says quickly like he can read Zayn’s mind. “As I believe you’ve learned, Harry is an intensely private person.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“He’s had bad luck with trust,” Louis says. “And it’s fucked him over.”

“Not with me, though.” Zayn takes another drink and licks his lips. “I told him he could trust me and he wouldn’t.”

“You know how trust is earned not given?”

“What did I do to not earn it?” Zayn waves around his hands and has to catch the glass before it goes off the edge of the bar. Louis raises his eyebrows at him.

“I didn’t say that.” Louis shakes his head, “You both are terrible listeners.”

Zayn folds his hands in front of himself. “I’m listening.”

“Trust is earned not given with normal people.” Louis pauses again and Zayn thinks he just likes the dramatics of it. “Harry isn’t normal.”

Zayn slumps back in his chair. “What does that even mean?”

“Once someone earns his trust, it still takes him along time to actually give it. He’s like a deer. Skittish.” Louis does some sort of hand movement to illustrate skittish as if Zayn is confused.

“Nice try but he’s a grown man not a deer, Louis.” Zayn finishes his glass and pours himself another. On the house needs to mean something tonight. He’s not sure what he’s getting out of the conversation with Louis but it feels like flexing a sore muscle to actually talk about the things he’s been avoiding.

“Bad choice of words, maybe.” Louis smirks and then it disappears. “Zayn, his life fell out from underneath him. I wasn’t here but I’ve heard enough about it to know he never saw it coming. He built a whole life on a bunch of people who used him and it’s hard to get over that, I think. I’m pretty sure he only trusts me because we’ve known each other for more than half our lives. If I ever fuck him over, he has like, the equivalent of nuclear launch codes to end me.”

Zayn smiles at that.

“From what I can gather,” Louis says, “He was working on it this time. On trusting you.”

“And then what? I called him on it and he ran for the hills?”

“Skittish.”

They both laugh but it feels cruel. Together, they stop almost simultaneously.

“He hates what happened. He hates that he let himself get caught up in a life that wasn’t real, that people he gave everything to gave nothing back. They used him for his connections and what it looked like to be with him.” Louis smiles, “Everyone loves a pretty face.”

“It’s fucked up what they did. I’ve never agreed to say it’s not.”

“It is.” Louis points at him, “Which is why the rest of us look out for him. I hated you when we first met. That night in the back room here, do you remember?”

Zayn bites his lip. “Yes, Louis. You could have cut the tension with a knife. Hard to forget.”

Louis shrugs. “Can you blame me? He shows up with this model-like guy.” He pauses to flip Zayn off before his ego can inflate and then he continues. “This pretty guy who he met at work. I mean, I know what Harry’s like when he’s recruiting people, all flirtatious and charming, and the only thing I could think was, ‘Well shit, this is Ethan round two’.”

“You changed your mind,” Zayn says.

“I did, yeah. I saw you with him and I could tell he liked you. A lot.”

Zayn laughs, “The first night? That’s the same night he basically told me he never wanted to see me again.”

“Patience Padawan, we’ll get there.” Louis puts his finger to his lips and Zayn flips him off this time. “He knows I’m a harsh critic and he just kept telling me all this shit about you until it got to the point I had to give you a chance or risk my ears falling off. Of course, the whole time I was getting ready to fuck you up if you pulled and Ethan.”

“Does that mean I’m exempt, then? You haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“If you think this whole...episode...has come close to Ethan and gang, you haven’t. I’m still willing to give you a chance.”

Zayn doesn’t mention he’s not sure he gets another one. He and Harry upturned a lot of dirt that day in his apartment and after a dig like that; it’s hard to pat it all down like it was.

“I think there was a part of him that never wanted anything to do with you. He tried his best to pull away. Leaving everything open the night you left was probably part of that.” Louis smiles, “Considering everything else, I don’t think he was very successful.

“So why did one thing break it all?” Zayn rubs his hands over his face. He hasn’t let himself loop this thought to the point of exhaustion yet. He easily knows he could. He hands it over to Louis so maybe he’ll do it instead.

“A couple of reasons,” Louis says. He finishes his glass and only pours a bit more. “Mostly, I know he already down on himself over his own slow pace at trusting you and then you actually told him he wasn’t going fast enough--I’m paraphrasing, calm down--and that only added to it.”

Again, it’s not surprising. Zayn feels the same frustration as usual building up. “Why couldn’t he just say that, then?” He presses his fists to his eyes until he sees sparks and then he drops them.

Louis rubs at the scruff covering his chin, “Because he doesn’t trust you. I don’t how many times I can tell you.”

“Why not?” Zayn yells and then clasps a hand over his mouth. No one seems to notice him.

“He is not used to people caring, Zayn.”

“Oh my god, I told him I don’t care about any of that shit, I only care about him. It’s always been just about him.”

Louis shrugs. “Dunno. Tell him again. All that,” he motions around his head, “hair might impair his hearing.”

It’s so absurd it forces a laugh from Zayn. “You’re taking his side then? Because he was pretty shitty too, you know. Telling me I break everything and that I purposely pushed him to be cruel.”

“See, this is fun now because I didn’t know what Harry said or did. Prince that he is, he leaves out some of the more damning details.”

“Are you taking my side then?”

“No sides.” Louis drains the rest of his glass. “Ah, fuck it,” he says, almost to himself, and fills it up again.

“He hasn’t called me, you know. He left my apartment and he hasn’t even tried to communicate since then.” Zayn leaves out the part where he told Harry to leave. Harry is strong on his own two feet; he could have held his ground. Part of Zayn, a bigger part than he’s willing to admit, wishes he would have.

“You do not want to hear what I’m going to say.”

“What?” Zayn prepares himself by closing his eyes. “Lay it on me.”

“Okay.”

He opens his eyes to see Louis’ lips twitching. He leans forward, so close Zayn can smell smoke on him. He whispers, “Phones work two ways.”

Zayn nearly whacks him across the head right then.

…

Taking a page from Niall and Samantha’s book, Zayn tempts fate by not trying to avoid Harry the rest of the week. He doesn’t like the shaky ground and he knows they need to decide whether to try and build or knock the whole thing down. It isn’t functional to wonder. Zayn also knows it’s not functional to depend on the universe to put them together instead of using his phone but he ignore that.

He gets dinner at Shake Shack and wanders in front of Harry’s office on a particularly ambitious morning. He even goes to a YSL preview show early on Friday because he’s sure Harry will be there. He’s not. He stays at the after party until he’s dead on his feet and doesn’t know anyone left. He doesn’t see him then either. He opens himself up to the universe and running into Harry, playing roulette that somewhere in the city their paths may cross and force a collision.

God, fate, the universe, whatever, doesn’t seem to care.

...

“Damn right, you’re coming out with us, you fucker.”

Zayn laughs into the phone, “Good to hear from you Nialler.”

Niall’s laugh shoots right through the speaker. “Sorry, I didn’t want you to hang up on me or anything.”

Zayn relaxes back into his bed with a smile. Part of his plan to open himself to the universe, means he woke up Saturday morning and told Niall and Louis he wants to go out. He knows they are Harry’s friends first and foremost but somewhere along the way, they’ve built friendships with him just as well.

There’s also a large part of him that is bored and lonely and could use some kind of social interaction outside of smiling and nodding at fashion shows. A smaller part, but a more aggressive one, is also bitter that Harry hasn’t come crawling back to him and the universe hasn’t intervened either. So, if word gets back to him that he’s hanging out with his best mates -- so much the better. Zayn’s quickly becoming an asshole. He’s well aware.

“Sorry I fell off the map there for a while.” He’d been hesitant at first if Niall would be the one to hold a grudge or ignore him in honor of Harry but Niall called him within twenty seconds of the subscript saying delivered popping up under Zayn’s text.

“You better be,” Niall says. “I saw that text from you and I thought the world was ending. Louis said he saw you earlier this week, I didn’t really believe him. I miss you, man.”

“Calm down, Niall. I said I was coming out already.” Zayn rubs at his forehead, “Don’t inflate my ego even more.”

Niall cackles again and it still manages to sound a bit like sunshine after a storm. Maybe, Zayn thinks, things can start to be okay.

...

The night starts off easy enough, meeting up for a cocktail party Niall has been invited to by some friends.

“He just likes to showboat when we’re not invited to something and he is,” Louis tells Zayn once they meet at the designated location out on the sidewalk in lower Manhattan.

“It’s not my fault my brain chose finances rather than something cool like design or serving alcohol.” Niall puts his hands up in surrender and grins at Louis.

“I don’t _serve_ alcohol, Neil. I own a bar.” Louis’ voice is tight and it makes Zayn laugh.

“Sure, sure,” Niall waves his hand around. “And don’t call me Neil, it takes away my Irish identity.”

“Oh, here we go.” Louis and Zayn both look at each other at the same time; Niall has a way of being extra proud of his Irish roots once he’s started drinking.

Niall flips them off as they all head inside the building. It’s yet another luxe apartment in the city, this time with sparkly floors in the lobby and an elevator straight to the penthouse. Zayn tries not to find it strange that he’s with Niall and Louis without Harry. He straightens his jacket and tells himself this may very well be the life he needs to get used to. The thought stings in every way he can imagine.

The floor is full from the moment the elevator doors slide open, people standing in their own little groups with classical piano music filtering in. Zayn can’t see very far, but he would bet there’s a live piano player somewhere in the mix, the private bar along the side and everyone holding mixed drinks in actual glasses gives off the vibe that the host is rich enough to have live music in an apartment.

“This is some classy shit, Nialler.” Louis puts his hands together and rests his fingertips on his chin as he looks around. “How the hell did you get invited?”

Niall laughs and adjusts the glasses he’s taken to wearing whenever they go out. “I’m a classy dude, Tommo. You’re lucky to know me.”

They navigate their way first to the bar for a White Russian each and then over to the lit fireplace where they stand in their own semi-circle. It lasts all of a couple minutes before they all realize how warm it is and relocate near a window.

“I’m not sure the fireplace is an excellent idea with this many people,” Niall says, running the sleeve of his shirt over his forehead.

“Maybe if everyone starts taking their clothes off it will be,” Louis says. He winks at someone just beyond Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn follows his gaze over to the piano in the corner being played live just as Zayn had suspected. The artist is a girl with a long blonde braid and her fingers dance over the keys effortlessly; or, at least, effortlessly enough that she can manage to wink at Louis before turning the page in their music.

Louis and Niall talk about nothing in particular but Zayn appreciates the way they steer clear of topics circling anywhere close to him and Harry. He looks away a couple of times when Niall starts to tell a story and Louis frantically shakes his head at him.

As per usual, Niall seems to know everyone, constantly being approached or waved at from across the room. He seems as excited to see each person as they are to see him, a stark contrast to the way Harry would act. Harry is always more reluctant when it came to seeing people he knows, of course now Zayn knows why--he never thinks they like him because he’s Harry but because of everything he has. Zayn kind of wishes he would stop thinking about Harry in every situation he encounters.

The second drink is smoother than the first. Once Zayn starts actually looking around the crowded party he begins to vaguely recognize some faces too. People he’s only ever made small talk or had casual interaction with but, with the slippery assistance of the drink in his hand, every vague interaction suddenly seems more friendly and as if he’s known them longer than he has. A third drink intensifies the sensation. He openly smiles at a woman who he once made idle conversation with while waiting in line for the bar at a gala. She smiles back just as warmly.

Someone Louis recognizes from getting his bartending license brings a few more people into their group and then Niall notices someone from his office who loops in as well. Conversation flurries between all of them and Zayn is comfortable, adding in a passing phrase or question without having to follow any direct line of exchange.

Right as he starts to get in the groove, talking to a girl named Kaya and her boyfriend about a trip they’re planning to the UK, Louis grabs Zayn’s wrist.

“Niall says we’re going to Yacht.”

“On a yacht?” Zayn’s brow furrows and he leans in closer.

“Yacht. It’s a club.” Louis rolls his eyes, “You massive nerd.”

Zayn is sorry to have left the warm penthouse once the three of them are back out on the street, teeth chattering in the cold. He thought three drinks would have provided sufficient warmth for the walk to the club but he was very, very wrong.

“We should have stayed by the fireplace,” he tells Louis. Louis, in a threadbare sweater agrees with an easy nod.

There’s a twirling line outside of Yacht which seems like cruel torture and, for once, Zayn is ecstatic to skip it altogether and get into the heat of the club. The walls inside are covered with multicolored light bulbs, all twinkling and flashing to the beat of music over the speakers. Ornate pieces of stained glass dangle from the ceilings and Zayn has the morbid and sudden thought that no one should move any further in case the glass sections all fall down and decapitate everyone at once.

“This isn’t much like a yacht,” Louis says as he looks around.

“Don’t think that’s why we came.” Zayn points to where Niall is snaking his way around groups of people to where Samantha is. She sees Niall while Zayn and Louis are still watching and she throws her arms up, pulling him in close as soon as he’s within reach. Louis and Zayn both look away.

They follow Niall’s lead through the crowd and towards the back where a bouncer has to unhook a rope to let them through. There’s a smaller bar in the private section of the club and Zayn and Louis get drinks there first before facing the mass of people. Zayn has always thought there were too many people involved in the industry to keep track of but the more time goes on, the more he realizes the faces stay the same and only the outfits change.

“Don’t lose me,” Zayn says to Louis right before he takes a sip of the blood red drink in his hand.

“I won’t. Promise.” Louis smacks his lips together over the sting of his whiskey. Zayn can’t be sure what Louis is trying to prove by drinking straight whiskey but he doesn’t fight it.

Louis finishes his drink first and Zayn hurries to catch up before they grab another and go towards a group of people that Louis recognizes. He prattles off their names as if Zayn will remember; the only one he truly catches is Stan but only because Louis has talked about him before, mentioned him at the pool party during the summer.

Names don’t seem to matter much after all, everyone falling into easy and shouted conversation around the high tables and plush couches against the wall. Zayn admits it feels good to be out and social again, something he hasn’t let himself have, hasn’t wanted to have, since he last saw Harry.

He loses count of how many drinks he has, taking them from the bar and getting them handed to him. With each drink the music gets louder and the edges of the room blur so he’s focused only on the group he’s standing with. He has no true connection to any of them so he shuffles around, introducing himself with a smile. Everyone rides the same wave, talking and laughing, yelling over the music.

Eventually Zayn loses Louis in the crowd as it progressively gets larger and louder. Zayn excuses himself from one conversation to go to the bathroom, giving Niall a thumbs up when he catches his eye across the room. He’s sitting in a booth with Samantha and Zayn is pretty sure they don’t notice anything that is going on around them.

In the mirror over the sink, Zayn runs his hands back through his hair and pinches his lip when he realizes it’s gone numb from the alcohol. He doesn’t feel the pinch of his fingers either. His eyes are red rimmed and he rubs at them, straightens his shirt before he goes back into the club.

It’s humid and sticky once he starts paying attention and there’s definitely sweat dotting along his temple. He grabs water at the bar this time, adding in some extra ice, in hopes of cooling down a bit.

Louis is talking to a girl in the corner and Zayn is a good enough friend to know not to interrupt. He wanders around some more before finally noticing an entire group of faces he knows he’s seen before. Names suddenly flood into his head but he can’t place if they are valid names or imaginary nor which goes to each face. He almost turns away to find someone he definitely knows instead but then one of the guys catches his eye and waves him over.

“Zayn, my man,” he says easily, putting an arm around his shoulders to tug him into the small group gathered in a circle.

Zayn smiles around at all of them, mind whirring in slow motion for a name like a lifeline before it all clicks at once.  “How’s it going, Daniel?”

Distantly, Zayn remembers meeting him late in the spring when he was just getting his feet into the social scene, back when Harry attended parties sparingly and as if he were under death orders. No one must notice the pause he takes to connect the pieces.

“I’m really good, bro,” Daniel says, smiling and squeezing Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn gets a weird feeling that creeps in like a wave but he chalks it up to the drinks rather than the company. Daniel takes his arm from Zayn’s shoulder to motion around at the others standing there. All eyes are focused on Zayn, and there’s engaged interest as if they think he is someone more important than he really is.

“This is Zayn,” Daniel announces. Zayn feels a second crest of the wave of strangeness. “He’s at Verve. That’s an ad agency, Lucy. I know you can’t tell the difference these days.” A girl with freckles who is across the circle flips him off.

Zayn has no idea what they’re talking about, some inside joke probably, but when everyone laughs, he does too. His body is in the pleasant zone of warm and fizzing and he accepts a drink from the girl he came and stood next to.

Conversation blurs and stutters around, the kind of tipsy talk that happens when you no longer pay attention to what you’re saying and whether it makes sense. Now, is usually when Zayn heads home. He’d much rather be drunk and in his apartment then make a drunken fool of himself around strangers. As soon as the thought prickles at the edges of his mind, it waivers and disappears because someone in the middle of the group is staring right at him.

Zayn doesn’t recognize the guy as his gaze travels over Zayn’s face, his eyes narrowing.

“Zayn Malik?” He takes a step forward and his head tilts.

Zayn doesn’t break face but his stomach goes spiky and he swallows. “Sorry?”

The guy’s face relaxes into a smile as he comes closer. “I’m Stephen.”

Zayn smiles but he’s not sure if it comes across right. He doesn’t recognize the name. “Stephen?”

Stephen waves his hands around and laughs, “Sorry, sorry, let’s back up. You know Harry, right? Harry Styles?”

For a moment the edges of Zayn’s vision go dark before he shakes it. A name shouldn’t do that to him. Yet here he is. “Yeah, I do. Sorry, couldn’t hear you,” he adds on to excuse the momentary lapse of focus.

“No problem, man. I thought I’d seen you guys together a time or two. It’s been awhile though, hasn’t it?”

With slow, painful recognition, Zayn remembers this Stephen as the guy at the pool party gala, the one who got in Harry’s face. His stomach flips again. He may not be as reserved or private as Harry but he won’t dish his life out in scoops to strangers either.

Stephen doesn’t seem to care about an answer. “Man, Harry and I used to get into some shit back in the day,” he says, making room for himself next to Zayn. “This whole crew,” he motions around, “We were all tight with Harry.”

Zayn slips his straw between his lips for an excuse to not answer. He can’t believe that only days earlier he opened himself to the universe to run into Harry and, instead, he’s run face first into all of his ghosts. He wonders if Ethan is standing somewhere within this group, he could probably manage a few words for him.

“We ran this city,” the girl next to him says, her blonde hair done in a high bun. “He used to be so much fun.”

Zayn swallows his drink. “I think he still is.” There. He’s done his duty to stand up to Harry’s ex-friends who, according to all sources, are assholes.

This time when the girl laughs, she throws her head back. “Oh, I’m sure you do.” She winks. It’s gross.

Looking around at the group with new recognition, Zayn realizes he’s definitely seen them all at different events before but never with Harry. Stephen is the only one who he has seen actually approach Harry but looking towards a girl with dark hair, Zayn knows she’s the one who first mentioned Ethan and Isabelle to him. She looks away as they make eye contact and whispers something to the guy next to her. On her other side is the girl who was dressed as an angel from Halloween, the one who implied Harry slept with his clients. There’s a slow roll of acid in his stomach as Zayn realizes they all knew him before he walked over here, Daniel introducing him by name was only a formality.

He looks back towards Stephen, now understanding where his feeling of unease came from when he first joined the group.

“Why won’t he ever come out with us anymore?” Stephen says to Zayn, eyes roving over his face steadily. “We could use his company.”

“Yeah, we could,” someone says from across the circle before laughing.

A turn of phrase or not, Zayn’s just wishing he had walked up to any other group.

“Stephen’s still bent up about it,” the blonde girl with the high bun says. “He keeps trying to confront Harry about it.” She laughs again like they’re all in the joke.

Zayn wants to tell them not to say Harry’s name, not to stand with him now and act as if they still know him. For all the secrets Harry never told Zayn, he likes to think he knows him better than these people.

Stephen shrugs, “It’s all in good fun.”

Zayn saw Stephen and Harry with his own eyes, the way they lunged at each other that night; good fun doesn’t seem like the right way to slice it.

“What is it you do again, Stephen?” Zayn’s tries to change the topic but his voice is accusing when he doesn’t mean it to be. “Slipped my mind,” he offers in apology.

“My dad owns a big chunk of Lower Manhattan.” He doesn’t sound like he’s bragging, he sounds like he is honestly answering the question. He takes a sip from the beer in his hand.

“Congratulations,” Zayn lifts his glass as if to offer cheers. The entire group laughs.

Stephen manages a smile too, “Zayn, let me get you a drink. A round for everyone.”

“Maybe a couple,” Daniel says and they all laugh again.

Despite his best intuition, Zayn stays with the group. He takes a shot from the tray as they pass it around and drinks it before everyone else.

“Zayn, dude, you’re a rock star.” A guy with slicked black hair points at him. “Get this man another shot.”

Everyone looks at him and smiles and Zayn laughs, but it doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. They offer him another shot and this time he waits, lets someone make a thoughtless toast about only living once before he downs the drink and smacks his lips.

“How about another?” He says to the group as he reaches for his wallet.

He should turn away and find Louis but coming from somewhere a bit more stubborn, he decides he wants to stay. He wants these people, whoever they are, to mention it to Harry the next time they see him-- that Zayn was there. He kind of wants it to hurt. Somewhere along the way of tonight, his heart has gone as cold as the streets outside.

Stephen flits away once he must realize that Zayn doesn’t want to talk about Harry and he’s not an easy in to get to him. Daniel and the blonde with the high bun--whose name he never gets--are nice enough and don’t mention Harry to him once. They’re enthusiastic and attentive, hanging on to each of Zayn’s words just as they clearly expect him to hang onto theirs.

Still, there’s an air of hollowness to the whole charade. A sense that the art of seeming engaged, leaning in closer and nodding along, is the whole point. There’s no real sense of ingenuity here, it’s all a show so they can walk away and feel like they’ve impressed someone, and have another connection even if it’s not the least bit real.

Zayn finds it harder to participate after twenty minutes, his eyes heavy with sleep and liquor. He has a half finished rum drink in his hand and he sets it on the table when a girl named Annie starts telling a story about a trip to India. Zayn’s always wanted to visit Dubai but she’s either mumbling or all the types of alcohol he’s ingested are starting to take its toll.

“Sleepy?” The girl with the bun smiles at him. She has lipstick on her teeth.

He nods, “Long day, you know. I should probably head out.” Each word comes out thick, like a frozen yogurt machine kept too cold.

Her hand wraps around his and she leans in close. Her perfume is heavy and tickles his nose, her breath warm and tinged with vodka. “Come with me, I know what you need.”

This is a scene from a terrible movie, Zayn decides as she pulls him around the edge of the group and towards a table tucked near a wall, almost in an alcove. This is the part where something bad happens and he’s not sure this is what he’s signed up for. Curiosity gets the better of him and he doesn’t stop her.

“Pick your poison.”

Any of the movie scenes animating in his head disappear. The alcove dims the sounds of the party making the room feel empty but the girl in front of him has her hand held open, decidedly not empty. There’s a small blue pill, a bigger white one, and a small bag of white powder. It’s probably not powdered sugar. The thought makes him chuckle.

She raises her eyebrow at him.

“What’s going on over here?” Stephen comes up and wraps an arm around Zayn. “Oh, a little pick me up.” He nods looking at the array in front of them.

A younger Zayn would have felt pressure to pick one, Zayn now isn’t eager to partake. He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Zayn,” Stephen sings his name. “One little line never killed nobody.”

He sings it like that stupid Fergie song from The Great Gatsby. Zayn shakes his head again.

“Are you sure?” The girl takes the pill and puts it under her tongue. “We can share.”

“No, I’m tired anyway.” His voice is stronger than he feels but he knows his limits, he knows that this is a hard no, in the same way it was an easy yes when he was twenty-one. He’s supposed to be an adult now; an adult who happens to be in love with someone who would hate to see where he is right now. That thought goes right through his drunkenness to hit him like a truck and Zayn steps out of the alcove to where he can hear the rest of the party again. He needs to find Louis and get the fuck out of here.

“Oh, come on. Don’t go.” Stephen steps closer to him and leans in, so close Zayn can see the tiny pricks of hair on his chin and smell vodka on his breath. “Stay out with us.”

Zayn’s vaguely aware that this is how he spoke to Harry, up close like this. It made Zayn’s skin itch then and he feels a similar itch again now. Before he can decline, yet again, there’s a hand grabbing on to his upper arm and pulling him back a step but not enough to make him trip. It’s almost gentle.

“Leave him the fuck alone, Stephen.”

Zayn nearly collapses. He almost has a spastic heart attack and dies right there at Harry’s voice, the last sound he expected to hear.

“Can you please get your coat?”

His mind focuses enough to realize Harry is talking to him, gripping his arm like he wants to pull it out of the socket but, still, talking to him. Zayn doesn’t fight it, doesn’t look at Harry or Stephen or the girl with the pill dissolving under her tongue. He just heads for where the coat check is though he can still hear Harry and Stephen’s voices. Harry has hatred in his, something Zayn’s never heard from him even when they hurled insults at each other in his apartment.

Zayn lets one hand drag along the walls and the people he passes by as he goes in order to keep him steady. He needs to get out of this fucking yacht. He asks for his coat and rests his elbows on the desk as the clerk goes back to get it for him. He makes sure to thank her as he puts it on but the smile she gives him is more pity than being impressed. He’s drunk and he definitely needs to go home.

The cold air outside hits him upside the throat and he gasps in surprise. It does wonders for his drunken haze though he’s still not going to be a candidate for driving a vehicle anytime in the next twenty-four hours. He leans back against the wall of the club and pats his pockets for cigarettes. He doesn’t carry a pack anymore, hasn’t in years, but he’d hoped maybe by osmosis or wishing hard enough it would be there.

There’s a sudden whirl of patterns next to him and he looks over to see Harry coming out of the same doors Zayn just did. No amount of time or anger or frustration can lessen the punch Zayn feels when he looks at him, even with his face pinched as he looks back and forth on the sidewalk before connecting with Zayn. Harry pushes his hair back as he walks over. He's wearing an all-black outfit save for a floral print peacoat Zayn hasn’t seen before. For some reason that feels like a different kind of punch.

Zayn stands up straighter on the wall, his hands in the pocket of his jacket. He feels like he’s steeling himself though he has no idea why. Maybe because Harry still looks as gorgeous as he did waking up in Zayn’s bed, his green eyes and pink lips standing out against his pale skin but now it hurts more because Zayn hasn’t gotten to see him in two weeks. Like this, Zayn’s not sure how long he’ll be able to stay mad.

Zayn swallows as Harry gets closer. He doesn’t know what to say and the alcohol impeding his motor skills is no help. Harry stops in front of him and they stare at each other, puffs of air visible between them. Harry lifts his hand like he’s going to touch Zayn’s face before settling on his own chin. Zayn feels the moment fleeting, almost wishing Harry would have just touched him.

“Are you okay?”

Zayn lifts his chin, “I’m fine. And I was fine in there too.” He tries to take a step from the wall to put space between them but it’s shaky, he leans back against the sturdy brick instead.

Harry’s jaw clenches, “Let me give you a ride home.” It’s not a question, but Harry’s suggestions never really are.

“I can walk,” Zayn says dumbly with no idea where Yacht is even located. He could be in a different city for all he knows.

Harry catches him on it, laughing. There’s no joy or happiness in the sound. “Good luck with that.”

Zayn resists sticking his tongue out at him but only barely.

“James is right there.” Harry points towards where the black car is parked on the curb.  Please don’t fight with me on this.”

A wind rips through right then and Zayn succumbs much easier than he had hoped, his teeth chattering again. “Fine, okay.”

If Harry is surprised he gives in so easily, he doesn’t let on. He turns and walks towards the car and Zayn tracks him with his eyes. He takes a deep breath and follows him amidst the terrible sensation his ankles aren’t screwed on to his legs properly. He reaches for a lamp post to steady himself. Each drink he’s had is hitting him in this moment, he’s sure. He closes his eyes only for a moment.

“How much did you drink?”

Zayn opens his eyes to see Harry standing at the back of the car, backdoor flung open. He shrugs. “Enough.”

Zayn can hear Harry sigh but then he’s wrapping his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and pulling him towards the car. Zayn breathes him in without really trying, the lavender and clean sweat almost too much for him. Before he can inhale again, Harry is pushing him slowly into the seat, giving Zayn time to put his arms out and scoot across the backseat.

“Good evening, James,” he says, voice resigned.

“Hello, Mr. Malik. A fun night?”

Zayn gives a thumbs up but his eyes are closed so he’s not sure of the general reaction. Harry’s snort doesn’t read easily.

He rests his head against the window, so tired he can barely stand it, letting his eyes drift shut. For a whisper of a moment, he forgets that this is not a normal night; that he and Harry will not end this one by sitting on the kitchen floor eating calzones from the twenty-four hour delivery place between their apartments. He smiles to himself just thinking of the last time they’d had the calzones -- Harry had been the too drunk one that night. He ate on his hands and knees in Zayn’s kitchen and called himself a cat. Zayn laughed so hard that he choked on an olive. He lifts his head, noting how heavy it feels, to tell Harry the memory, to see if it still makes him laugh.

Harry is sitting perfectly straight in his seat and looking out the window on his side. The moment, the memory, is gone. Instead, replaced with the dizzy drunkenness of the current situation.

Zayn’s eyes are heavy again. “Just take me home, please,” he says though no one has asked. He’d like to pretend for longer, that he and Harry are as they once were that the cracks between them were never revealed and then widened by each other’s viciousness.

“How about you just come back to mine?”

Zayn doesn’t open his eyes when he hears Harry voice. He nods instead and hopes someone is looking at him.

Maybe, just for tonight, Harry wants to pretend too.

Zayn must fall asleep or forget to pay attention because the next thing he’s aware of, the car is slowing and Harry is opening a door, saying something to James that Zayn is too tired to hear. He sits up and wipes drool from the corner of his mouth; maybe he did fall asleep.

He opens his own door and gets a head rush, the sudden flood of exhaustion from being too drunk and too tired. He thinks he gets out of the car gracefully but with the way Harry eyes him wearily from the door, he’s not too sure. Maybe that’s just the way they look at each other now.

Walking into Harry’s apartment is a sharp influx of things that hurt -- Zayn’s chest goes scratchy and his throat thick. Everything is the same -- Harry’s yoga mat rolled neatly in the corner, the colorful blanket over the back of the couch, a basket of clean clothes on the armchair.

Zayn stands in the doorway a moment too long, wondering what he should do. Harry takes off his floral jacket in the meantime and hangs it on the coat rack. He has on back jeans and a tight black shirt--irresistible to Zayn at one time. Now, he looks away.

Zayn takes off his shoes and leaves them by the door while Harry messes around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and then the refrigerator. Zayn wishes he were sober and could pay more attention to everything instead of feeling as if each moment is separate -- no cohesive connection to the next.

He’s not sure what to say as it is, not sure he’s equipped for whatever fight they’re bound to have. It must be coming-- a fight. In his mind, that is how this must end, logically. They can’t walk away and smooth everything over with a smile, there are too many emotions still lingering.

In an absent corner of his mind he wonders if they’ll touch, if it will burn him from the inside to touch Harry again. If maybe they’ll pretend long enough to get in bed together and make a different kind of battleground.

He stops when he catches sight of Harry’s desk. The closed MacBook has been pushed to the side slightly to make room for a box. Zayn can see without getting closer what is inside and his heart detaches from the walls in his chest, drops right to the bottom of his stomach.

Inside, on top at least, is his green army jacket and, next to it, his black sweatshirt. Nestled between them is the casserole dish he’d brought over once he found out Harry had broken his and his spare phone charger he had left plugged in next to Harry’s bed. It’s the stuff he’d left behind, the same kind of remnants Harry left at Zayn’s. The only difference is, these aren’t pushed aside under the bed, they’re sitting in plain view, packed up and ready to be given to their rightful owner.

While Zayn has been avoiding and running, Harry must have been confronting and closing chapters. Zayn’s not sure anything else has hurt quite this bad yet. He doesn’t want to have to keep a tally anymore. There is no battle to be fought or pretend game to be played. This, he realizes with clarity that stings his eyes, is over.

When he looks away from the box, Harry is staring right at him. He has his hands in front of him on the counter, face blank. As Zayn meets his eyes he looks away. Zayn follows his gaze to the countertop where there’s a glass of water and a plate of square crackers, a couple of brightly colored pills for pain.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Zayn offers for a lack of anything else to say. The desire to fight has drained --the alcohol and exhaustion winning the battle once more.

When Harry finally looks up at Zayn again, his eyes are closed off. A stark comparison to when Zayn used to read them so clearly. “I think that’s best.”

Zayn stands halfway between the kitchen and the front door, deflated in every way as he watches Harry leave the room without another word. He gets the water, crackers, and pills and takes them back to the couch, setting them on the coffee table. He notices the Scrabble game has been haphazardly put away on the shelf beneath the table.

Of course Harry has played with someone else. They don’t have any sort of copyright on a board game. Zayn attributes the ache in his chest to his drunken brain and not a broken heart. He’s never had a broken heart like this, wasn’t sure what it felt like. He hopes being emotional over Scrabble isn’t part of the healing process.

He flings his jacket on the back of the couch and then lays down, pulls the wool blanket over him. He closes his eyes only to see splashes of color dancing behind his eyelids--the kind that only come when his body hates him for drinking so much and wants to protest. He flips so he’s flat on his stomach and presses his face into the pillow. A wash of darkness comes and with that, he falls asleep.

...

The morning is painful. Excruciatingly, so. Zayn wakes with a wave of nausea and propels himself into the bathroom across from the kitchen to dry heave over the toilet. Nothing comes up and he knows it’s best that way. Of the things he needs to deal with in the next hour, puking in his ex-whatever’s bathroom is nowhere on the list.

He splashes cold water on his face and then washes his hands, the orange smell of the soap refreshing to his curling stomach. His head throbs, begging for the water he should have had before falling asleep. This, he assumes, is why Harry left out the water the night before -- not for the morning after but a preemptive measure. Just another thing Zayn didn’t understand in time.

Harry isn’t in his kitchen or the main room so Zayn’s dignity is saved momentarily. He drinks the glass of water in a gulp and fills it up at the kitchen sink again. He drinks the second glass so quickly it goes down his chin and trickles, wet and cold, into his shirt. He takes a third, full glass back to the couch so he can take the pills. He eats the crackers for substance in his stomach and they stick together in his throat with the water. He thinks he might choke before he catches his breath and then eats them slower.

He folds the blanket he slept with and puts it over the couch again. He doesn’t touch to box of his things that Harry has gathered for him. Somewhere in his mind, he has decided that Harry is going to have to give it to him. Physically lift it up and explain that he doesn’t want Zayn’s shit in his house, he doesn’t want to be reminded of him, doesn’t want him; As if there are any questions left but maybe Zayn is still too stubborn.

He walks around the apartment a bit and puts on his shoes before he realizes he hasn’t heard anything from Harry since he woke up. His key ring still hangs on the hook by his jackets so he must be somewhere in the apartment. Zayn winces when he realizes Harry must be hiding out in his room. Maybe he’s as good at avoidance as Zayn is. What a pair.

Zayn doesn’t mean to be cruel -- it’s only an experiment, really--as he intentionally stomps across the floor and opens the front door before shutting it loudly and freezing in place to make it seem as though he’s left. It’s a terrible game but part of him has to know if this is what Harry is waiting for.

He almost doesn’t expect it, feels as though he’s seen a ghost, when Harry does appear in the hallway near the kitchen in sweats and a white t-shirt with his hair in a bun that’s falling out. Harry must feel the same way seeing Zayn because surprise drips down his face, all the way to where his fists suddenly clench at his sides.

“Morning,” he says, cordial as anything. He walks into the kitchen and stands at the sink, not looking at Zayn. Maybe he hopes Zayn will leave quietly.

Zayn bites down on the bullet between his teeth and walks into the kitchen as well. “Thank you for last night.” He says, realizing as he does that he means it. “I think I drank more than I had realized.”

Harry nods and Zayn is left to stare at the wide plains of his back and hunched shoulders, the muscles of his neck. His brain scans for things to say before Harry turns to face him. Seeing his face again, up close and sober this time is a shock he doesn’t expect.

“What were you even doing with all of those...people?” He says at last, gesturing around vaguely. “Why were you with them?” His voice is guarded but bordering on disbelief, as if Zayn could be so stupid to fall in with that crowd.

The tone ignites the dormant flames between Zayn’s ribs. “People?” He rolls his eyes, “I was there with Niall and Louis. Your friends. Mine too, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well neither of them were there when I found you, Zayn. So the people you were with? Not my friends. Hopefully not yours either.”

“I can make my own decisions, thanks.” He wonders in what world they’ll talk to each other normally again, without trying to incite a fight. “Everyone I met was perfectly nice by the way.” Zayn knows it’s a low blow to casually undermine what Harry went through with the same group. Maybe that’s why he says it at all.

“I’m sure they were perfectly nice in every way while they trying to shove pills at my boyf--” he stumbles over the word and shakes his head, “At your face.”

Zayn ignores the slip but takes note in big, bolded letters -- maybe the fight for whatever they had is not yet finished. “Not everyone is out to get you, you know.”

Harry stares at him, clearly waiting for something more.

“Despite what you think, neither am I.” He wishes there were different circumstances for his mind’s sudden and swift determination to hash things out. Differences like clean clothes that don’t smell like a barrel of rum and a toothbrush, maybe not a pounding headache and a dry mouth. “I shouldn’t have told you to leave that day in my apartment,” Zayn says. “But you shouldn’t have left either.”

Harry’s eyes go wider, “Oh, it was a brain teaser, then? Sorry I failed.”

Zayn clenches his jaw.

Harry sighs as if he realizes the bitterness between them; something that, even when they first met, never existed. “You shouldn’t have told me to leave. That was the first thing I wanted to fight for in a long time and you wouldn’t even listen to me.”

Zayn touches his chest, “I think I listened quite well. Shall I recap? You think I pushed you to the edge of your sanity until you had no choice to tell me things about yourself.”

Tension goes right through Harry’s body and his fists clench by his sides. “No.”

“No?” Zayn laughs. It’s airy and sharp.

“You didn’t even care that I was trying.”

Zayn closes his eyes, they’ve gotten nowhere in the past two weeks of silence. “How was I supposed to know that you were trying anything? You are the one who didn’t let me in.”

"You weren’t ever supposed to know any of that in the first place,” Harry says, sudden and quick. “You were never supposed to mean anything.”

Zayn feels as though he’s been slapped. “What are you talking about?”

Harry’s voice is high like he’s about to laugh. “This was all supposed to be just a bit of fun.”

The world stops on its axis and everything breaks; Everything in Harry’s apartment and everything inside of him. It takes a moment for him to realize he’s still standing there on his own two feet.

“Are you -- what are you saying? This was about what, sex?”

“Maybe.” Harry shrugs and there’s a mask there. This is cruel and with intent.

“I’m sorry you caught feelings, then,” Zayn says, voice flat. “I guess I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

“Who says I did?”

Zayn snaps. “You just fucking did, Harry. You said I wasn’t supposed to mean anything not that I don’t mean anything.” Zayn lifts his hands, “Guess, you can’t drop clever lines to get you out of this one. See, I thought the recruiter version of you and the one I fell in love with were two different people.” His lip curls over the word love like its tainted. Coming out like this, maybe it is. “It turns out you’re both liars.”

Harry nods. “It was my mistake. I should have stopped it much earlier rather than lead you on.” There’s no remorse, no chance to try. Cold, resigned.

The ground is slipping from under Zayn’s feet and there’s nothing to hold onto. His mind echoes to his apartment when Harry told him he was happy, that Zayn was the one who broke it. Now, the script has flipped and Zayn realizes Harry never wanted him in the first place.

Harry is disappearing right in front of him, closing off his gaze, and draining the emotion from his voice. Zayn wants to hurt him the way he’s hurting but he doesn’t know how. “You have a black heart, you know that? You won’t let anyone in because of something that happened so far in the past no one even remembers. Not everyone is looking to slice you open and sell the parts. Least of all me.”

Something breaks in Harry’s face, a flash of pain Zayn doesn’t expect. “You don’t know me Zayn. So don’t act like you do.”

Zayn feels like there is blood in his mouth, “Nice, Harry.”

Maybe realizing how far they’ve both gone, they stay quiet for a moment.

Harry speaks first. “You can’t live as though everyone isn’t who they say are and is trying to hide from you, okay?”

Zayn’s mouth drops open. He can’t believe they’re going to part like this, Harry doling out life advice like they’re strangers.

“You deserve to indulge a little bit and enjoy what you’ve worked for without picking it all apart. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Zayn gathers himself before he speaks, and then, measured as anything he says, “Don’t give me advice you don’t even fucking take yourself.”

He doesn’t wait for Harry to react, to yell more or, worse, to dismiss him without a second thought. He just turns and leaves. He grabs his jacket from the back of the couch and he’s careful not to slam the door.

Outside, he kicks the base of the building in frustration but the pain only echoes through him, his nerves suddenly screaming all the way up his spine. Only once he’s started walking down the sidewalk does he realize he didn’t take the stupid box from the desk.

...

Life goes on.

Zayn assumes that’s what he’s supposed to discover over the next few weeks. Life doesn’t stop for real tragedy like death or sickness and it especially doesn’t stop for matters of the heart. Everything keeps moving, one continuous march through the day, the week, and the month until pain turns to numbness and eventually we mistake that numbness for getting over it.

One week and five days, from the last time Zayn speaks to Harry, he’s still not sure he’s got past the pain part. Pain, of course, shows itself to him in waves of anger and frustration, longing and sadness. Seeing Harry again, fighting again, has set Zayn back in square one of getting over him. The difference this time is that he resigns himself to accept the end without fighting it. Harry regrets what happened between them, he said it himself. When he looks back on it, it seems black and white. Harry doesn’t want him and Zayn can’t beg him to while holding onto his dignity all at once. There’s finality to it this time, something new for Zayn to get used to.

He doesn’t have to avoid Harry anymore, scared they’ll have to talk and confront their demons. They’ve done enough of that. Next time, he knows, they’ll only have to politely say hello and pretend that everything between them never existed. Isn’t that what happens with matters of the heart -- emotions exist only in ghosted memories, left behind only in echoes of pain.

Despite it, Zayn still avoids Harry anyway. The thought of having to say a simple hello and move on -- it seems impossible.

Louis shows up at Zayn’s doorstep the weekend after it all goes down. He half smiles when Zayn opens the door and holds up a bottle of whiskey. Zayn lets him in easily.

He sees both Louis and Niall less over the next couple of weeks though he’s still not made the determination whether it’s timing or them dividing their time between him and Harry. He’s too scared to ask, really.

Niall’s the first to bring it up out loud -- right at the two week mark. Nearly a month since Zayn last woke up with Harry in his bed, not that he’s really counting.

“Do we not get to have a custody battle? We’re just split right between the two of you?”

They’re walking through Central Park during lunch on a Monday with scarves and hats pulled over their ears. December is no joke here. Despite early preferences, Zayn’s learned to like Central Park with the constant rush of people even if most of them are tourists. Eight months in and he still feels like one himself half the time.

“You’re not our kids, Niall.” Zayn adjusts the cardboard around the cup of coffee he bought on the walk over. He doesn’t need the caffeine but it’s a cheap hand warmer.

“Feels like it, though. I hate thinking, like I have to walk on thin ice around both of you because I’m a bit more clumsy than that. I prefer to stomp, you know.”

“Like how?” Zayn smirks as Niall starts exemplifying his stomp.

“I don’t know. Can I say the name Harry to you? Is that like me saying Voldemort?” Niall wiggles his fingers before shoving them in his pockets.

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Like, say Harry tells a joke and I want to tell you, too. Am I allowed?”

Zayn stops and looks at him, “I doubt it was really that funny of a joke to begin with.”

Niall stops too and looks at Zayn with wide eyes before he starts laughing, bent in half with one hand over his heart. Zayn chuckles despite himself, his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth. Making light of the darkness, finally laughing about it, lifts a weight in Zayn’s chest. It feels like progress.

He doesn’t only fixate on Harry -- he’s smart enough to know the world is bigger than him, than this. He tries to explore the city on his own more, the way Harry said he learned it originally. He walks to get lost and goes to museums he sees advertisements for. He goes out with friends from work and then makes coffee dates with their friends and gets to know them too. He tells himself he’ll try everything once though it’s easier said than done.

It’s not perfect because nothing ever is. He still gets waves of hurt over Harry and they don’t seem to lessen. He still saves up things to tell him and scopes out places he thinks would be good for him to take his clients. Sometimes he lets it go on for too long before he reminds himself it doesn’t matter anymore.  

“That seems like it should mean something,” Liam tells him one night when they talk about it on the phone. Nearing midnight for Liam, Zayn is just walking to the subway to go home.

“It shouldn’t,” Zayn says, navigating through foot traffic and dodging a family taking a selfie in the middle of the sidewalk. “He’s an asshole.”

“That’s right,” Liam says without pause. Zayn presses the phone to his ear as a tour bus full of yelling people passes by. “He’s rude and hurtful. You should never see him again.”

It goes quiet around Zayn, one of the strange and rare moments that happen in the city -- a pause between the cacophonies of sounds. “Hey. Watch it. He meant a lot to me, you know.”

Liam sighs, “I know. I was just checking to see how the getting over him was going.”

“Not,” Zayn laughs and looks up at the grey skies. “It’s not going.”

What Liam said to him is a thought that echoes through the weekend -- the fact Zayn can’t find it in himself to hate Harry or even dislike him for what’s happened, that has to mean something.

Unfortunately, he just doesn’t know what.

He spends that Saturday with his Kindle, a welcome reprieve from the social life he’s slowly fostering. He’s reading Donna Tartt’s first novel, as he’s embarrassed to say he didn’t know who she was until The Goldfinch, when his phone vibrates on the counter next to him. He looks over and his lungs collapse and his heart snaps in half. At least, that’s what it feels like.

The name flashing is made up entirely of emojis -- the red ‘X’ and the skull -- a particularly bitter edit Zayn had made the night he and Louis drank a fifth of whiskey together. He doesn’t answer as it flashes just stares until his eyes start burning.

At the last possible moment he picks it up, can barely catch his breath as he says, “Hello.”

He thinks hearing Harry’s warm, thick voice may set him back in the stages of grief but maybe it’s worth it, to have one little piece.

He waits.

“Harry?” He licks his lips, suddenly dry. “Hello?” He pulls the phone from his ear to check the connection. “Are you there?”

He listens for Harry’s voice but it never comes. Instead, he hears the faintest rhythm as if something were sliding the speaker over fabric again and again. He can’t place the sound for a moment until it clicks in his mind. Through the phone, he’s listening to Harry walk. He won’t willingly admit it but he listens for a minute or so before he finally ends the phantom call.

He can’t be trusted with his thoughts so he calls Louis next and explains what happened.

“You realize he must have had your contact open, right?” Louis says after Zayn has gone in a circle explaining how he doesn’t care but is only curious and then admits that he cares a little.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Zayn rolls his eyes, pacing in his kitchen.

“Dude, I don’t know how many Nokia phones you’ve been brainwashed with but iPhones don’t butt dial random people. You have to unlock it and have someone’s name pulled up for it to even be likely.”

“Or the most recent call list,” Zayn adds on to defend his technological knowledge.

“Let’s be real, I’m sure you’re not on Harry’s anymore.” Louis’ voice is reasonable.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” He laughs. “I’m just saying he had to be looking at your name and then throw his phone in his pocket unlocked in order for this to happen.”

Zayn hangs up not at all convinced. Then, of course he sits at the counter and lets his mind roam free over the possibility that Harry did have his contact information open. The question is whether he was going to press delete or try to talk to Zayn. The possibilities of either of those choices send Zayn into another spiral. His Kindle sits forgotten near his elbow as he face plants into his granite countertop.

...

Reasonably, Zayn knows he can’t avoid Harry forever. The city is big but their circles are tight. Still, when it happens he doesn’t expect it.

He’s at Verve working in one of the conference rooms on a color palette. He wants jewel tones but according to the set designer, he always wants jewel tones and they need to diversify. He studies the lines of color and points out the ones he likes. Truth be told, kelly green is no match for forest green in the fall. No one seems to care what he thinks about the color green.

He looks out the conference room window by chance, and feels like he’s been hit by a school bus when he sees Harry Styles framed by the glass and standing on the other side. At first, Zayn doesn’t notice him since he’s turned to the side in a black suit but as he gestures in conversation with the person next to him; Zayn can see clearly that it’s Harry.

Zayn openly stares because while it’s still Harry in front of him, he can tell with the dimple in his smile and the way his lips draw slowly over his words, his hair is gone. Not _gone_ , gone but Zayn feels like he’s about to go into some sort of shock. What a week ago was long enough to pull up into a bun is now shaved short on the sides and longer over the top, pushed back like he’s ran his hand through it. Zayn’s not sure he can look away.

Then Harry smiles at something the girl he’s with is saying and Zayn sees it head on, pink lips pulling back over his teeth, and the smirk it melts into afterwards. He keeps staring as Harry starts talking again, gesturing around and then glancing in the window of the conference room. Zayn’s satisfied to see that Harry does a double take upon seeing him but he makes sure he’s looking away by the second time Harry looks back.

There’s a double dose of ache when Zayn calls his mum that night. They catch up on his sisters and his dad, what he’s doing with work and his new life. Then, his mum says, “Whatever happened to that Harry you talked about?” and Zayn feels the earth shudder under his feet. In the rush of the summer and fall, Zayn never talked much about Harry to his family, unsure where they stood exactly. Now he’s been paired down to ‘that Harry’ and Zayn stutters over his generalized answer. For the first time he realizes ‘that Harry’ will be his mum’s only reference to a period of Zayn’s life that meant so much. He can’t figure out how to put that into words.

...

A week before Christmas it snows.

Zayn is unprepared for it and slips leaving his apartment the entire week going into work. He’s cold to his very bones and he daydreams about taking exotic vacations to places he can’t pronounce and then searches through Google images to really sink home the longing. As if he has time to fly to a private island--he’s already under a torrential crunch from planning to take three days off plus a weekend to visit his family for the holidays.

He eats candy canes with the veracity that some people smoke cigarettes and he drinks enough coffee his hands are still shaking when he goes to bed at night. It’s supposed to be the wind down for the end of the year at work but that feels like more of a myth than anything. All week there are campaigns to double check and photo shoots to schedule, Zayn even has to take the train to Connecticut one morning to oversee the installation of a billboard--one of many things definitely not in his job description.

By the time the Winter Wrap fashion show comes that Friday he nearly considers not going.

“It’s a pun,” Kris says, waving around the invitation that sheds pieces of paper snow leftover from the box it came in. “Or something. It’s a wrap on winter and they’re showing wraps for early spring. That’s funny.”

Begrudgingly, he gets a grey suit to tie in with the wintery theme which he pairs with a dark blue pea coat and navy blue plaid scarf. He tells himself he’ll stay for the show and then he’ll split, back to his apartment to pack for his flight to Bradford in a mere handful of days.

The lobby of the show is decorated with snowflakes that shimmer and shine with the help of lights along the floor and a lot of fake snow scattered around. Zayn appreciates the effort even if it’s going to be a headache for someone to clean up once everyone is finally gone.

He finds his way to his seat, mingling along the way with too many cheek kisses to count properly. Like Harry told him at the beginning, he’s discovered that though not everyone is putting an act, a lot of people are and fashion shows are not times for friendships.

Sitting down shouldn’t feel as good as it does but after the week he’s had, Zayn lets himself close his eyes for a moment. He hopes this show keeps up pace otherwise he might fall asleep right there. Last week he sat through a completely silent preview show that had scared him more than anything. Not to mention the intense empathy he felt for the guy a couple rows away who got hiccups.

He sets his phone in his lap, ready to jot notes should he have anything earth shattering to try and remember. He usually makes up for his lack of enthusiasm for fashion shows by noticing things no one else does, muted florals in black prints or a trend of strange plastic earrings straight out of his sister’s Polly Pocket toys from when they were kids.

He bounces his knee as the final few people filter in and the lights dim in warning. He watches the entrance like a hawk, unsure if Harry will come or if he’s already left the city for the holidays. When he actually sees Harry come in across the room, his heart pounds in his chest like a trapped bird in a box. Zayn doesn’t run and hide but stays perfectly still while his pulse races. He wants to not be so affected by his mere presence, he wants to be able to say, “Hello,” and move on despite his nervous system and vital organs acting out in protest.

There’s something biting in his stomach but that settles once Harry takes a seat on the other side of the catwalk. His suit is dark blue with a crisp white shirt and he wears it well. His short hair isn’t as startling now though Zayn still isn’t used to it.  Harry’s jaw is more defined this way, but he looks more serious too. He looks as worn by the world as everyone else, something that didn’t seem so apparent when he had perfect curls instead. He sits with his hands in his lap and Zayn can see he has rings on, a lot by the looks of it. Zayn forces himself to look away, unsure if Harry’s even seen him. It’s not his position to stare at Harry unabashedly anymore.

The show starts and the lights dim fully to the soundtrack of a forest, leaves crunching and a bird chirping. Then the screens light up with images of snow falling over a field and the speakers whir with wind. Zayn swears the air conditioning gets turned up just for atmosphere, which is unnecessary in December all told. Finally the first model comes through to the sound of actual music, the snow still falling on the screens. Zayn tries to focus on the themes and colors on the runway, the thrash of music, rather than the peacefulness of the falling snow. _That_ is sure to put him out cold.

Eventually his eyes wander to look at Harry. He only sees his side profile as Harry focuses on the show but that’s enough. For everything in Zayn that has been trying to get over Harry for a month, he thinks it may have all been for nothing. Because looking at him now feels like a fresh wound all over again and Zayn indulges in it, presses harder against the pain for the chance just to see him. He wants to stop the show and stand up to ask Harry how this happened. He wants to ask him if he misses Zayn too, if he knew before right now that he could miss the very sound of someone’s heartbeat.

All this time, six weeks, has passed and Zayn can finally admit he doesn’t know Harry anymore. He knew him and knew a lot about him, but in this moment he doesn’t know what he’s scared of or what he’s excited about. He doesn’t know why he cut his hair or if he likes it, if he’s going home for the holidays, if he’s happy. He doesn’t deserve to know those things anymore but that doesn’t eclipse how badly Zayn wants to, how his heart suddenly rushes in a quicker tempo because he wants so badly to know Harry again. There’s another rush, swifter, that reminds him that he can’t.

Like a pinch, everything is suddenly too overwhelming and Zayn knows he can’t stay. One day he’ll sit across from Harry Styles, he’ll say “Hello” and he won’t care about anything beyond that. Today is not that day and he should have known that when Harry walked in, he never should have expected himself to be stronger than he is.

Politely, he waits until the show finishes though he doesn’t focus on any of the apparel any longer. He’ll read the wrap up on the blogs the following morning, he tells himself. He’ll send an email to their contact with the fashion house and tell them he loved it. He just can’t bear to do any of that right now.

He sneaks out while everyone is standing up and applauding the designer, humming apologies without making eye contact all the way back to the lobby. He’s pretty sure the young guy behind the coat check is judging him for leaving early but Zayn asks for his coat anyway.

Outside, he trades the fake snow for the real stuff, though it’s been pushed mostly to the sides of the walkways and trampled down throughout the day. He walks down the center of the sidewalk, careful not to veer towards the slippery edges. Lights are wrapped along the trees and on the edges of the buildings. Zayn’s not sure exactly what part of the city they’re in but he likes how small it feels, like there’s a cafe on every corner.

Someone comes up behind him on the sidewalk, he can hear their footsteps on the frozen payment and he moves to the side as much as possible to let them pass him by. From the sound of it, they’re running though he’s not sure who runs at an hour like this unless they’re hoping their private parts freeze off.

“Zayn.”

He stops dead at the voice, the one he’s so badly wanted to hear but suddenly hurts like alcohol over a fresh cut. It’s Harry, of course it’s Harry.

Slowly, Zayn turns back towards the voice to face him head on. He looks like a dream there with the dark sky behind him and the white lights of the street lamp overhead. He has a black jacket and a grey scarf and he’s wearing his sparkly boots. In a strange corner of his mind, Zayn wonders if Harry is colder this winter than last without his hair to cover his ears. He pushes the thought away.

“Hey,” he says. It feels good to get the word out finally. “How’s it going?”

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, “I’m good, yeah. You?”

Zayn mirrors him, watches their breath dance between them, highlighted by the cold air. “Good.”

The air gathers again and Zayn can’t quite believe any of it is real. All of the feelings--the anger and aggression, the sadness laced with memories of when they were together--it boils down to staring at each other with frozen pavement under their boots.

“You cut your hair.” Zayn tries not to cringe at the obvious statement. He can’t fathom this is all they have left.

“Yeah,” Harry runs his hand back through it and ruffles the top slightly. It still looks good. “I felt like I needed a change.”

_Did you do it because of me?_ Zayn wants to ask. _Was this how it felt to everyone else when you went and reinvented your life after them too? Like you’re only a stranger we all used to know?_

“It looks good,” he says instead.

They stare at each other again. Zayn starts to turn and walk away first. He can’t think of one more thing to say and waiting to think of something useless to say to the person he used to tell everything to is like a sick joke.

“I lost myself.”

Harry’s voice makes him pause before his shoulders are halfway around but he turns back all the same. His hands curl against the seams of his jacket pockets. Harry says Zayn didn’t listen to him, this time he will.

“When all that stuff with those people happened,” Harry continues. “I was lost. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t recognize myself because my whole life was an act. It was a movie and I was just a character.”

His voice is measured, slow but not as slow as usual, more like he’s thought out what he wants to say. Maybe he’s stayed awake into the early hours of morning running through the things he’d say if he ever had the chance.

“Afterwards, when I tried to remember who I was supposed to be, I ended up trying to be so controlling of everything that I wasn’t living, really. Nothing was that fun anymore.” He swallows and raises his eyebrows, “And then I met you.”

Zayn can fill in the rest. He was supposed to be a fun time to get back in the groove again; he wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. They’ve been through this.

“For what it’s worth,” Zayn says continuing his own strand of silent thoughts, “I don’t regret it or wish it would have ended earlier.”

Harry’s eyes search through Zayn’s face but he doesn’t say anything.

Zayn shrugs, “For what it’s worth.” The weight that he’s had lodged under his lungs isn’t lifted fully but it feels good to have said something. To say something he actually means rather than lashing out in anger.

“I didn’t know how to say it or tell you,” Harry says. He looks like he’s going to say something else along with that but he doesn’t.

Zayn sighs because haven’t they been through this enough already. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought that if I just cared enough and tried hard enough to let you in, you would know that I was.”

The corners of Zayn’s mouth turn down. If only it could be that easy.

Harry’s mouth quirks into only half a smile, “I fell in love with you, Zayn. I didn’t want to and I tried so hard not to but there I was. I was terrified.” His smile disappears but he still stares right at Zayn, “And I should have just told you about Isabelle and Ethan and all of them because none of that was ever important, not really. But you are.”

Zayn rubs a hand over his forehead; his skin is cold to the touch. “Then what was all the shit about wishing this all never happened?”

Harry takes a step closer. “I was upset and I wanted to hurt you like you had hurt me.”

It’s not an apology but Zayn can’t expect one, he did the same thing to Harry only in different words and two weeks earlier.

“That day you slept over, I thought I could convince myself, one last time, that falling for you was wrong. If I could say something that would make you never come back, I wouldn’t have to fight myself for control anymore,” Harry says.

“Is that what you were doing, all that time? Trying not to want me?” Zayn is forced to confront it.

He’d gotten the idea from the last time they talked and he’d connected the echoes of the night in the bath, Harry’s whispers against his neck, with all the times he’d disappeared, gone right off the map without explanation. The first night Zayn left New York after he got the job wasn’t Harry rejecting their friendship, it was the first of many times he practiced self-restraint in the art of not getting attached to Zayn. Zayn hoped he would never have to admit it out loud.

“I didn’t try anything,” Harry says. “I hoped that if I stayed away from you it would lessen the way I felt.” His eyes are wide open, clear green in the light of the streetlamp, begging Zayn to understand. “It made it worse. I only wanted you more.”

Zayn sighs. “I never knew. I never knew you were so scared that you couldn’t just let go and be with me. I thought you were busy with work. I didn’t know the whole time I was tugging myself closer to you, you were trying to back away.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry says quickly. He takes another step forward. It takes control for Zayn not to match it with the opposite. “I said that I wanted to and that I thought that I could. I didn’t account for the fact I would fall in love with you and not be able to let go. I’ve tried to control it but it was beyond me.”

“Then you gave into it and started to try and let me in. That’s what you said, right? That you were trying.” Zayn’s giving him excuses and he closes his mouth once he realizes. What he wants to be true doesn’t necessarily means it is.

“I wanted to explain why I was so hesitant. I wanted you to know where I was coming from and that I wasn’t trying to hide from you, Zayn.” Harry swallows and Zayn can’t help how sweet it is hearing his name falling from those lips. “I kept waiting for a shining moment to say something and it never came.”

Zayn laughs, it’s still bitter. “Anytime would have been fine. Life isn’t a movie where you need a break in the script, you just have to go for it sometimes.”

“I know that now,” Harry says. His voice is quiet.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you,” Zayn says, admitting his fault. “I didn’t mean to dig at you and I don’t think I realized it was hurting you until that day in my apartment. I just wanted to be let in so badly it all came out wrong. You were always enough for me and I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t.”

“I was scared to lose control over everything again,” Harry says. “Scared to lose myself in someone.”

“I’m not that bad.” Zayn half smirks and Harry mirrors him.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you, you know.” Harry swallows and shrugs. “Even after all we said, even when I tried to hurt you so you wouldn’t ever talk to me again, I couldn’t stop.”

“You made it seem so easy to forget.” Zayn licks his bottom lip thinking of Harry’s apartment. “You made me feel like I’d imagined everything.”

Harry looks down to the sidewalk between them, “I’m good at making people believe what I say. Even if I don’t believe in it myself.”

Zayn’s throat is thick and when he laughs his eyelashes flutter. “You can’t do that to people you care about, Harry. I trusted you because I believed you wouldn’t ever try to hurt me. Not on purpose at least.”

Harry swallows and he looks up. Zayn can see sincerity written on his face. “You hurt me too.” He shakes his head when Zayn tries to interrupt. “I wanted to let you in and I finally felt like I was. Like, I’d given up all of the ropes holding me back and finally focused on what I wanted with you. It took me so long,” he rolls his eyes and his laughter is just a huff of half chewed air. “And right when I thought I was getting somewhere it all fell down.”

“I pushed you,” Zayn nods, understanding. “I accused you of lying when you were working up to it.”

He watches Harry’s face light up as he speaks, nodding along. “Something like that, yeah.”

Zayn presses his lips in a thin line. “I’m sorry for that. I am. I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough for me, that I wanted to find your flaws.” He waits until Harry sniffs and nods before he continues. “But do you understand that I never knew there was something to work up to? That you never told me any of the stuff going on in your head but expected me to be okay when it finally came out because of someone else?”

All of the lights go out in Harry’s face.

“I fell for you early on, Harry. We had just barely started anything. And all the while, you were disappearing in front of me because you were trying not to hold on. For a second, imagine what it was like for me to find out you were only ever half there.” Zayn puts a hand up to his chest. “I was all in. And you never bothered to tell me where you stood.”

“I’m telling you now,” Harry takes another step forward. “I’m standing right here and telling you that I should have, that I wished I did. That I love you Zayn. I didn’t see it then, I didn’t know. Now, right here, I do. I wished I would have known how to tell you before but I didn’t.”

Zayn wants to turn away. He wants to say it’s too little too late.

“I wasn’t half in,” Harry says, maybe sensing Zayn’s hesitation. “I was falling the entire time. I was skidding down the hill and you were at the bottom from the night we went to the bridge. I tried to stop it but I never once faked anything or pretended with you. I didn’t have to.”

“Harry.” Zayn doesn’t know what to say for some reason Harry’s name is the only thing to come out.

“I never meant to hurt you.” Harry licks his lip. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Zayn closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he opens them and looks at Harry straight. “I don’t think anyone ever does.” There’s a crossroads between them, a way to turn but neither of them can quite seem to find it. “I said so many things I didn’t mean and I was too bitter to try and take them back.”

Harry nods. The ghosts of their words still sit between them, jabs that hit home and hurt they’ve carried for six weeks.

“We hurt each other, Harry. I find myself wishing we could go back,” Zayn admits into the quiet. “And maybe be more honest from the start. I would tell you that I loved you right when I knew and there would be no blurred lines between us. And you would tell me that you were trying. That you had things you didn’t want to talk about but all of those things didn’t matter as much because we had each other.”

Snow starts to fall as they stand there, small drops of it, wet and cold but dancing on the way down and kissing their jackets and hair.

“What do we do?” Harry eyes are heavy when he looks at Zayn, his voice defeated. “How do we go back?”

Zayn bites the inside of his lip before he says it. “We can’t.”

Harry looks like he’s been slapped, the hurt darkening his face as he tries to catch his breath. Zayn watches him, feels the pain of it in his own chest for what they lost with the words they couldn’t say.

“Maybe we can’t go back,” Zayn says, swallowing. “But maybe we can just try again. With all of it on the table this time. Your trust issues and my persistent need to pull at stitches and we just,” he shrugs, “We see if there’s any of the good left. Because I love you too, you know. Even when we hurt each other and walked away, it was still there. Still is, I mean.”

“I want to,” Harry says. “I want it so badly but,” he sucks his lips in before exhaling in one big gust. “I don’t know how.”

Zayn knows what he’s saying. The intimacy that they built, the ways they tethered to each other--it shattered, they forced it to shatter. He can’t be sure if it can ever come back or if what’s done is done. If it will always be awkward between them, if they’ll never trust each other fully because they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, whatever shoe it may be the next time.

But what a pity it would be not to try. To let it go and never try to pick up the pieces.

“I don’t know either,” Zayn admits. It hurts like a bruise he doesn’t want to touch.

He thinks Harry might cry, his eyes shine and snowflakes twirl on his eyelashes. Instead, he smiles. It’s soft and familiar like a warm blanket. “I know a really good coffee shop around the corner. They have hot chocolate and they put peppermint sticks in it for Christmas. We could start there?”

Zayn’s lip shakes and he bites it. “Yeah. Okay. We can do that.”

Harry nods, “Okay.” And then a bit louder, he repeats himself. “Okay.”

Harry starts walking towards Zayn and Zayn turns to walk alongside him. The snow falls in tiny flakes. Almost too small to see now but there all the same.

Harry and Zayn’s boots make soft sounds against the frozen pavement, the sounds of the fashion show after party barely filtering after them. Their hands brush as they walk, knuckles and fingertips inadvertently touching. Slowly, Zayn steadies Harry’s hand by taking it in his, interlocking their fingers and letting their palms kiss.

He won’t say it out loud but even with the snow falling down, the uncertainness of where they will go, Zayn swears there’s a flash of warmth right then. Harry squeezes his hand and there’s a shooting sensation, right up his arm and down to his toes. It circles back eventually as they walk and when the soothing warmth finally settles, it tucks itself right behind his heart.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes: "One and Only" Adele, "Sound of Your Heart" Shawn Hook
> 
> Epilogue to follow on Sunday!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far -- thank you! My endless love and gratitude to you. I hope you've enjoyed. xo

  
_**September**   
_

There’s a puddle of condensation gathering under his glass. Harry drags his finger tip through it and drags it along the length of the table until the water thins to absolutely nothing.

Across the table, Dina, younger than him by a couple of years, flips through a contract as thick as her thumb. She has lavender hair and a pierced eyebrow, born and raised in Texas with a southern tilt to her voice. She’s sharp as hell, the kind of girl who doesn’t take shit because she knows exactly what she wants and how she wants to get it.

Harry starts to touch his finger to the condensation pool again when she looks up. Quick as anything, he pulls his hand back to his lap and dries his fingers on a napkin. He smiles.

“You don’t actually think I’m going to sign this without talking to a lawyer or someone who can tell me why half of this is saying the exact same thing but with different words. Right?” Dina raises an eyebrow at him, electric blue nails tapping the cover page in front of her.

“Of course not,” Harry says easily. “You don’t have to make any decisions until at least the end of the next week. I just wanted you to have a chance to get your hands on the paperwork early on.” He smiles. 

She has a laugh that sounds like whiskey and summertime. “Oh, sure. Wouldn’t you have loved to hand me a contract on day one that I sign automatically?”

He smirks, “Wouldn’t be the worst end to a week, I suppose.”

She leans back in her chair. “Better luck next time.” She doesn’t say it meanly but just like she knows the score. “Now, what’s the plan from here?”

Harry pulls at his suit to straighten it. It’s deep purple like an orchid, or the Joker from Batman but he’s going for the flower instead. “Well,” he puts his hands in front of him. “How about you tell me the plan instead? Where do you want to go?”

Harry doesn’t control itineraries for strangers anymore. He makes suggestions and let’s them pick the things they want to do. He knows he’ll still have Dina convinced by the end of the week to sign, he’s still Harry Styles, but whether that means she wants to go to a dinner she’ll probably never be able to afford again or she wants to eat rainbow bagels in Brooklyn, he’ll take her wherever. It’s her life, he’s just passing through. By the end of the week, they’ll both get exactly what they need.

“What’s the big deal here?” She asks as they get ready to leave, plans made for tomorrow, the bill paid on the edge of the table, and nothing but tinted ice cubes left in their glasses.

“What?” His pulse picks up, blood thrumming in his ears but he stays cool on the outside, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“I grew up in a small town and then I get a call that I should come to New York and write for a mainstream magazine? Why in the world should I give up everything I know for New York? Of all places.”

His pulse settles. This, he can deal with. 

Before he can open his mouth, she smiles. “Please don’t give me the cool guy answer. I’m sure you don’t always wear vibrant purple suits and look like an off duty male model. You’ve got to have bad days too.” She raises her eyebrows and tugs at her earlobe. “Just tell me straight up.”

She’s kind of girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Not even Harry Styles.

Zayn would love her.

Harry prods at a couple of the ice cubes in his glass before he smiles. “I can’t tell you what to choose because I’ve made a lot of wrong decisions in my time. This suit is not one of them, by the way.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Don’t waste your time waiting for the right moment or the moment it all clicks together. Figure out how you feel and decide if you like that feeling.” He shrugs, “Eventually the rest falls into place.”

She looks at him for a beat and then nods slightly. “That was a bit of a cool guy answer but I’ll still take it.”

He waves at the bartender once he gets up to leave and then pushes the front doors of the Soho House open with both hands. Outside, the sun is hanging low in the September sky but just barely. It casts an orange and dreamlike glow around the city. The leaves are still crisp on the trees, the fresh smell of new beginnings lingering in the air.

Harry sees Zayn leaning against the wall at the edge of the building. He’s got his ankles crossed and his phone in his hand, eyebrows pulled together as he reads something. Tonight they’re going to dinner at a new restaurant that just opened on the upper east side. If he has to, Harry will throw both of their phones off the nearest balcony so they can forget about work for at least a little while. 

Harry starts towards him and his purple suit must act as a siren because Zayn looks up, messy black hair, hazel eyes and a devastating smirk. Absently, Harry wonders if there will be a day he looks at Zayn and doesn’t lose his breath for a fraction of a moment. He hopes not.

“Hey, hot stuff.” Zayn’s smirk dissolves into a smile and he puts his phone in his back pocket as he pushes away from the wall.

Harry rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “Hey, you.”

Zayn whistles lowly, “Look at that suit.”

“I showed it to you this morning before I left,” Harry says. “I did a fashion show and everything.”

Zayn scrunches his nose, “It was early, babe. I don’t think my eyes were even open.”

“Rude.”

Zayn smiles, “And I was exhausted. Someone kept me up almost all night.”

“Someone seemed to have no problem with it as it was happening.” Harry raises his eyebrows images of bitten lips, endless skin, and rumpled bed sheets dancing behind his eyes.

“Someone was so loud the neighbors left a note on the door asking if everything was okay.”

Harry’s eyes go wide in surprise and Zayn grabs his hips to pull him in close, both of them laughing. Harry kisses Zayn with one hand on his neck to hold him steady as he tastes his lips. Zayn sighs against his mouth and then kisses the corner of his jaw, and the side of his neck.

“Is that her?” Zayn asks, motioning with his eyes over Harry’s shoulder. Harry looks over and waves when he sees Dina coming out of the building. She looks like she's trying to suppress a smirk as she waves back.   


“That’s her,” Harry says, still smiling after her until she disappears around a corner. “And now my cool guy cover has officially been blown because she just saw me macking on my boyfriend in public.”

Zayn laughs and the corners of his eyes scrunch. “Cool guy cover? It went that well, eh?”

“Yep.” Harry smiles, “She said she thinks I’m cool.”

“Oh no,” Zayn bites his lip, “Who’s going to be the one to tell her?”

“I am cool,” Harry protests.  

Zayn raises his eyebrows, “Yikes.”

“I’m untouchably cool. You can look but don’t touch and all that.”

Zayn smirks, “You’re not a stripper, babe.”

Harry straightens his jacket, “Everyone wants this, Zayn. They just can’t have it.”

“Yeah?”

Harry nods, smirking. A warm wind dances over them and under the edges of Harry's hair, finally long enough to brush his shoulders again.  


“I can, though,” Zayn says quietly for only Harry to hear. “I do.”

Harry traces over the arch of Zayn’s cheekbone with his finger. He loves him. He loves him so much he can feel it in his fingertips most days. Zayn says it can feel it behind his ribs, a spark that dances around and gets warmer when he looks at Harry.  They still have their own apartments but someday, soon, Harry is going to ask Zayn to stop leaving his and just move in with him.

It’s not always perfect but only because nothing ever really is. It’s a work in progress, a labor of love to understand each other and work through the sticking points. It’s good, what they have--good for both of them. They’re better for having each other and pushing each other. Better for being the ones they each turn to first and telling each other their secrets without asking for anything more than trust in return. 

Zayn smiles at Harry and kisses the inside of his wrist, right over his steady pulse.

“Yeah,” Harry says, looking at Zayn right in the eyes.  “Yeah you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> [daisyharry on Tumblr](http://www.daisyharry.tumblr.com)


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